The Colour of the Rain
by tailkinker.au
Summary: House has been missing for three years - until Wilson finds him, enslaved and broken, working in a hotel bathroom. Wilson will stop at nothing to rescue House from this life, even if it means he has to become House's owner. A slave AU, co-written by Tailkinker and HousesHead13 with contributions from nickythehippi. No pairings. House, Wilson, Cuddy and the fellows. Warnings inside
1. Chapter 1

**Authors' Note** : So this is what happened: **HousesHead13** (another writer here on ) emailed me with an idea for a fic, wherein all sorts of terrible things would happen to House. I said 'that's a nice idea but I'm busy writing another story at the moment, I don't think I can write anything else'. So they wrote the first scene and sent it to me. Intrigued, I wrote a few more lines and sent it back to them. They wrote some more. Forty thousand words (and still going) later we have this story. Later chapters will include some contributions from another writer -nickythehippi - who joined with us for some flashback scenes to House's childhood.

**Warnings** - Oflymonddreams coined a phrase for this sort of fic - 'horrible things happen to House' and that about sums this fic up. This is a full-on slavery fic. It contains multiple instances of both physical and sexual abuse of Greg House, lots of humiliation scenes, restraints, caging, corporal punishment, flashbacks to childhood abuse, abuse of power and anything else we could think up. Proceed with caution - it's a very rough ride. Viewer discretion is advised :)

There are no pairings and it is NOT a dark Wilson fic.

* * *

_No one was born to be a servant or a slave._

_Who can tell me the colour of the rain?_

_(The Power of One, _Sonata Arctica_)_

It was three years since Doctor Gregory House had disappeared. He had just walked away from his old life, from the people who knew him. They had kept looking for him every day to start with, but after a while they lost hope. The man they had known was gone. They had to accept that.

The prestigious medical conference was held in New York. Most of the people attending it were staying in the hotel where the conference was being held. Foreman and Chase attended as representatives of the Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital diagnostic team. At one time it had been a world famous - and controversial - team. Now Foreman led the team, and although he had been unable to fill House's shoes the team still kept Diagnostics operating, against all the odds.

Wilson was also attending the conference. As always he felt House's loss keenly - seeing Foreman in his friend's place still hurt every day. His life had been consumed for a long while by trying to find House - not wanting to lose another man like he had Danny. His work had suffered until finally Cuddy had gently put her foot down. Wilson had to decide whether he wanted to get on with his own life or not. He'd tried to put House behind him, and seek a new life but secretly still held out hope that one day he would find his friend again.

After the day's presentations all three hit the bar of the hotel.

* * *

A slave cleaned one of the many bathrooms at the luxurious hotel. He was weary from a long day's work - the latest in a succession of long days. Every bone in his body ached and the wound in his leg was an agony. He wore a pair of sports shorts, and a white t-shirt with the Rent-A-Slave logo on back and front, both items both heavily stained and torn. A pair of frayed sandals were on his feet, and a heavy black metal collar sat around his neck - reminding him of what he had become. His body was completely shaven of all hair, including his face and head. He was as bald as any of Wilson's cancer patients. On his right cheek he bore a tattoo - the SAC initials - marking him as a slave - as property. As worthless human shit.

It was only seven at night, but the conference at the hotel was filling the bar with people in a partying mood. Many of them were already drunk, and several had made their ways to the bathroom - and found the slave cleaning there a handy source of additional entertainment. He'd already been urinated upon and worse.

He was scrubbing the urinals when he heard them come in. There were three of them, their voices raised in a laughing conversation. He knew each one. All three. His heart pumped harder and adrenaline surged through his veins. Desperately he kept his head turned away and stayed on his knees, scrubbing, willing them not to see him.

He knew they weren't the kind of people who would want to hurt a slave for sport. If he kept working they'd ignore him. They wouldn't take any more notice of a slave than a piece of furniture. If he just kept quiet. They'd ignore him.

They were already drunk, talking about Chase's innate ability to make women fall in love with him. They were drunk and laughing... happy. They had forgotten about him, and moved on. He wasn't surprised. He had been an ass to these people, to everyone; his absence would have been felt only as a relief.

He let out a silent sigh of relief when his old friends went to wash their hands after pissing in the urinals he had just cleaned. They hadn't seen him, and they weren't going to see him. Shortly his supervisor was going to pick him up and take him back to the building where he would sleep after eating his daily portion of slave chow. The slaves went to sleep early so they could wake in time to start another twelve hour day.

It was Wilson who screwed everything up of course. It was Wilson who saw an orthopaedic cane in the mirror and a thin but tall man kneeling besides it, cleaning. The slave heard footsteps walking towards him and swallowed hard again, his heart beating fast, his blood pressure accelerating with each second that passed. He kept his gaze down and continued his work, pretending to be mopping the floor.

An idea popped into the slave's head. He wasn't going to be House. He was going to be just a mind wiped slave, another piece of furniture. A body with no soul to come back to it.

"Hey, boy, look at me," he heard Wilson say softly. The slave wiped his face blank of expression and looked up at Wilson. He could see the horror in Wilson's eyes when he looked back at him. Wilson collapsed on his butt on the ground. His mouth opened but no sound came out. When the slave looked past Wilson he could see Foreman and Chase watching, confused. Then they stared at the slave, their eyes reflecting their recognition. This was their former boss.

Chase remained frozen to the spot while Foreman advanced on the slave, his eyes never leaving him.

"House," he said, fear and doubt in his voice.

A shudder ran through the slave's spine. He hadn't heard that name in two years. He was just Greg, or a 'boy', or 'useless piece of shit', he wasn't House. He kept his blank expression against all the odds, and talked softly.

"Sir, this slave is called Greg, sir. I don't know any person called House. I am sorry, sir."

"He's been mind-wiped," Foreman said. He looked at Wilson, who was still sitting on the floor in shock. Wilson's eyes were wet with tears, a sight that pulled at the slave's heart. He held his blankness - they must never know.

He never thought that he would be so happy to see his supervisor appear in the entrance to the bathroom, an angry expression on his face.

* * *

Wilson couldn't seem to get his mind together. The sight of House, kneeling on the floor, with a collar around his neck had shocked him. The blank expression, and the realisation that he had been mind-wiped, that his brilliant mind was gone, had devastated him. For three years he had held out hope that he would see House again, that he would return to the hospital and resume his practise. Even after he assured Cuddy that he had moved on, and put the past behind him, he had still had a sliver of hope, deeply buried. Now he had found House and lost him again.

He looked up as he heard a sound at the door of the bathroom. A man in a uniform was standing there.

"What's going on here?" He asked, a scowl on his face as his gaze fixed on House.

Wilson watched, shocked, as the man went up to House and pulled on his collar, holding it tight. House's knees were lifted slightly off the floor and he made an agonised choking sound.

"Has this boy been bothering you, gentlemen?" The man was carrying a thin cane in one hand and he lashed out at House with it, still holding tightly to his collar. House yelped in pain, the sound strangled by the choking hold on his collar.

"Please, let him go. He didn't do anything..." Wilson got off the floor, exchanging shocked glances with Chase and Foreman. "Don't hurt him." Foreman moved towards the man but stopped when the man let go of House's collar.

House huddled into a kneeling position, his head hanging down - his breath coming in agonised gasps. Wilson's heart broke to see him trying to make him cowering and making himself as small as possible at the man's feet. What the hell had happened to him these last three years? How had they broken him like this?

"I'm sorry - I just slipped." Wilson said quickly, tearing his gaze away from House and focusing it on the man. "Your slave was trying to help me."

The man laughed and struck House again with the cane. House flinched away from him. "Boy thinks he's better than he is. Fancies himself as some sort of doctor. He's tried to 'help' people before." He laughed again and poked House with the cane. "What a joke - a slave doctor!" He kicked at House. "You, boy. Say you're sorry to these men. Do it properly or you'll get a thrashing tonight."

House hesitated and received another lash for his trouble. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled over to Wilson, pressing his lips to Wilson's shoe.

"This slave is sorry they bothered you, sir. Please do what you like with this slave."

Wilson couldn't find his voice for a moment. Then he shook his head. "I don't want you to do anything. I accept your apology."

He watched in shock as House repeated the performance, crawling over to both Foreman and Chase in turn and kissing their shoes. When he was done he returned to the man's side, still crawling.

The man unhitched a chain leash from his belt and clipped one end on to House's collar.

"You can do another two hours now for wasting my time. Get your lazy ass up off the floor and come on."

House struggled to his feet, his bad leg clearly hurting him. His head was still down and he didn't look at them as he was led out of the room.

The three men looked at each other in shocked silence. Then Wilson spoke.

"He knows who he is. We have to get him back. We can't leave him here. Somehow we need to help him."

Foreman looked at Chase, who nodded in agreement.

"Whatever it takes, Wilson, whatever it takes."

* * *

**_Three years earlier_**

He heard a familiar pair of Louis Vuitton high heels clicking rapidly towards him and accelerated his pace towards the door. It was already after five, and time to go home for him. His leg was killing him and he was looking forward to putting it up on the couch and numbing the hell out of it with booze and pills.

"House! House! Wait!" He heard Cuddy calling. He kept his head down and pushed on towards the door as fast as his three legs could carry him. He'd reached the almost safety of the parking lot before she caught up to him, grabbing his arm and yanking him off balance.

"What do you want? Sex? Sorry, done my quota for today. There might be an opening tomorrow - see Cameron, she keeps all my appointments."

"I need you to take a new case. Cameron told me you'd finished the last one."

"Yes, one case per week. My job is done. I'm going home."

"Patient is a four year old child. He's been sent to us from Princeton-General. They can't work out what's killing him. He needs you. He's deteriorating fast, he'll be dead by the morning when drag yourself in here. You can spare another few minutes for this kid - how much can that hurt?" She thrust the blue folder at him.

He took the folder reluctantly, flipping through the pages. "How much can a few minutes hurt? I've been here three days with my last patient. I'm not a fucking slave, Cuddy."

Cuddy looked around, as if she expected the SAC bogeyman to be lurking in the shadows.

"Don't even say it, House. I don't treat you like _that_. Those poor people..."

"You an abolitionist, Cuddy? Want to save their poor souls? Better watch out, don't want the SAC poking through your underwear drawer looking for collar shears." House had made his feelings on slaves pretty clear in the hospital - he didn't want to talk about that shit. He didn't want anything to do with them.

He tuned Cuddy's protests out and mulled over the symptoms. Annoying, itchy red marks on his chest, lung scarring not consistent with medication use, no food allergies. Maybe heavy metal toxicity? Explained the lungs, the itching and the swollen tongue and throat.

"Heavy metal toxicity," he declared, tossing the file back at Cuddy who fumbled but caught it.

"Heavy metal toxicity? He's four, House. How would he be exposed?"

"When I was four my neighbours were sucking paint off the walls. Of course, that could explain a lot of things about them..."

"But..."

"Talk with my team. Chase and Cameron are on call. Or they might be having sex in the janitor's closet. Lead poisoning is the most common. Test for that and do the food allergy tests again. I'm out of here." He opened his car door and got in.

"Chase and Cameron are together? And they're having sex in the hospital? House..."

He shut the door of the car and made gestures that indicated he couldn't hear a word that Cuddy was saying.

Then he drove off. A night of pleasant oblivion was waiting.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N - The 'SAC' are borrowed from the CollarVerse, created by Oflymonddreams. Any medical cases in the story are borrowed from various episodes of the show.**

* * *

**Present Day**

His decision was made - he was going to 'buy' House.

He couldn't forget the image of finding House, like that, so broken. On his knees wearing stained working clothes, and a black metal collar around his neck. His best friend, the friend who had diced so many times with death and disaster, and always won, was a slave. After the supervisor had dragged House away at the end of a leash - a leash! - Wilson had puked in one of the toilets that House had just cleaned. He'd spent the rest of the evening caught between utter shock and a frantic need to set things right.

Chase and Foreman had had to return to work, leaving Wilson alone in New York. He'd assured them that he wouldn't be leaving without House.

The time for being shocked had passed - now he had to set his plan in motion and save his friend.

He parked his car at the headquarters of Rent-A-Slave in New York. He'd done some research on the company and learned that they both hired out slaves and also sold them to interested parties.

He walked to the front desk trying to project an air of confidence; he knew these people were not going to sell House to him if they thought he was trying to help him. It was against the law for people to buy slaves for that purpose. He had to project an air of indifference. He was just buying a car, he told himself, there was no need to get emotional about it.

There were no slaves in sight and the reception looked like any other reception in any other building. There was no sign of the trade in human lives carried out here.

"How can I help you sir?" asked a female receptionist. She was young, with blond-red curly hair and big green eyes, a little skinny but Wilson thought she was hot...what House called his "Wilsonian" side was already kicking in, he really didn't need that at the moment.

"My name is James Wilson - Doctor James Wilson. I would like to buy a slave," he said awkwardly.

"Is this going to be your first slave, Doctor Wilson?" she asked politely but with a slight knowing smile.

"Yes, my first one," he said, blushing and rubbing the back of his neck.

"It´s okay sir, many people feel uneasy when buying their first one. You don´t have to be ashamed, slaves are useful tools if you know how to use them and discipline them. They are designed to be purchased and used after all." She sounded matter-of-fact, as if she was talking about someone buying a new dishwasher. "But I am afraid that the slave exhibition - that's where you can inspect the slaves - here is on Thursdays and Saturdays, and you also need a reservation to attend. They're very popular. We have no openings for next week but we can set you up for -"

"Wait, wait -" Wilson said, putting his hand up in a 'stop' gesture and interrupting the flow of words. "I don't need to attend an exhibition. I already know which slave I want to buy." He said firmly. "I know he works here."

The woman's eyes widened in surprise. "Well, that's... unexpected. Not a lot of people come here with their choice already made but it does happen occasionally. I suppose you've seen him somewhere on assignment and want him now? Do you have the number from his collar?"

"Er... no..." Wilson said, flustered.

"Well, did you ask him his name? I need to find him in the system. We have a lot of slaves as I'm sure you realise."

"Gregory John House," Wilson said, his voice thick with emotion he didn't want this woman to hear.

"He told you his surname? Slaves aren't supposed to have one."

"I asked him, when he just said Greg I asked him what his surname used to be," Wilson explained hastily, tense with anxiety. He hoped he hadn't screwed things up. This had to work. He had to take House with him.

The woman was frowning at him. "You don't know this slave from his former life, do you? It's against our policy to sell them to anyone they used to know."

"No, no of course not. I just saw him when he was cleaning the bathrooms at the hotel and I er... wanted him for myself."

"Well, do you have a physical description? I have twenty seven 'Gregs' in the system and we don't have their former names. Where did you see him exactly?"

"He's tall - more than six feet, has blue eyes, looked to be in his forties, maybe fifties, he has a limp. He was at the Four Seasons Hotel in New York during the medical conference that was there last week."

The woman pecked at her computer while Wilson held his breath. Finally she nodded.

"Yes, I have him. You are fortunate; he hasn't been assigned anywhere today so he's working here. I'll call his supervisor to have him brought out to confirm he's the one you want, and then a sales clerk will take care of you. Take a seat over there, Doctor Wilson."

Wilson nodded and started walking but she called him back before he had gone far. "Doctor Wilson," she said, crooking a finger at him, beckoning him closer. "If you want that slave you need to have a better poker face, you need to convince them that you're just interested in buying a slave." She looked at him significantly and he nodded his understanding.

"Thank you," he said softly but sincerely.

* * *

It took only a short while for the sales clerk to appear and usher him into a small office. Once inside the office he saw his friend kneeling, naked, on the floor by the desk, with his head bowed and his hands shackled behind his back. A thin chain ran between the handcuffs and the collar around his neck. A large man, who must be the supervisor, was standing beside House, holding a thin cane. Fortunately he wasn't the man Wilson had seen abusing House in the bathroom of the hotel.

"Please take a seat, Doctor Wilson." The sales clerk gestured to a comfortable chair in front of the desk. Wilson sat down, trying to appear at ease with the process of 'buying a slave'. He didn't look at House but was acutely aware of his nudity and the position he was in. Just kneeling like that must be agony on his leg. House would hate Wilson seeing him like this.

"I understand you wish to buy this slave - known as Greg. It's uncommon for people to come here and ask for a slave by name. Before we proceed I need to know what has prompted this."

"I saw him and decided I would like to own him. Do I need another reason? A slave is a slave." He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. "If you prefer I'll buy a different one. Or take my business elsewhere." It was a bluff of course; he was gambling that the company would jump at the chance to sell a slave in House's condition - at a no doubt inflated price.

"Not many people would choose a middle aged, disabled slave for themselves."

"He is appealing to me. I want to use this middle aged, disabled slave for sex. Is that what you want to know? I like them damaged." Wilson answered coldly, his eyes fixed on the young clerk. "Now, do you need to know anything else about my sexual preferences before you sell him to me? What sort of whips I like to use? How I'll make him scream?" He saw House flinch out of the corner of his eye but kept his face calm. He could explain everything when they were done here, and House was safely with him. House's future depended on his ability to stay in character with these people.

The clerk smirked and glanced down at the kneeling slave. "I understand, sir. No, we don't need any further details. I'm sure this slave will be happy to fulfil your needs." He reached into a drawer and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Wilson saw that they were titled 'Slave Ownership contract'. "Thomas here is one of Greg's supervisors. He will give you full disclosure on the slave and then if you wish to proceed you can read through the contract and sign if you accept the terms. We can supply a written report on the slave if you wish to wait a few days for it to be prepared."

"No, a verbal one is all I require."

The clerk nodded and gestured to Thomas to continue.

Thomas prodded House's shoulder with the cane. "Look up, slave."

House looked up, his face devoid of expression.

"This slave - Greg - came here two years ago, straight from the Slave Administration Centre where he had undergone the usual processing. He was reported to be a class 5 - difficult - slave who required strict handling. Over the last two years he has become an excellent slave. He works hard, doesn't get distracted, and responds well to discipline. He can learn easy tasks and has shown signs that he might eventually be able to undertake some more complex tasks. "

"The slave came to us with a pre-existing injury to his right leg. He is mobile but walks with a limp - but can move quite quickly despite that. The injury seems to give him some chronic pain. We give him ibuprofen, 600 mg, each meal. Incidentally that provides a handy discipline tool - simply withdrawing the medication for a day or two encourages compliance. Sometimes even with the medication the pain can be extreme, and he needs to be restrained and gagged so he doesn't disturb the other slaves with his moaning. "

Wilson's stomach was twisting with this cold description of House's pain. Although he used to think that House exaggerated it for the sake of keeping up his constant supply of Vicodin Wilson knew that he'd be in agony without any medication at all.

Thomas looked down at House. "Spread your legs, slave, let Doctor Wilson have a good look at you," he said, prodding House's groin with the cane. House quickly did so, exposing his genitals to everyone's sight. Thomas lifted his cock slightly with the cane. "He is fairly sensitive, sexually. Would you like me to get him to stimulate himself so you can see him fully erect? Or, if you prefer, you can do it yourself."

"No... no, that won't be necessary," Wilson said, struggling to maintain his composure. "I'm not particularly interested in_ his_ pleasure. As long as he has an asshole and a mouth he will suffice."

Thomas laughed and the clerk smiled. "He has both of those all right. You won't go wrong with him there. I'd let you try him now but that is against policy."

"He's fine. I'll take him." Wilson perused the contract. "This all seems in order. How much do you want for this crippled, difficult, slave?"

"Standard price for our slaves is $30,000. We are prepared to offer a discount on this one due to his imperfections. He's a second after all, like a fridge with a dent in it." The sales clerk laughed at his own joke. "How about $25,000?"

"That will be fine." Wilson took out his checkbook. He didn't want to pay these creeps money for his friend. House wasn't a piece of furniture to be bought and sold - he was a person. He wanted to grab House and take off that damned collar and let him walk out of here with his head held high.

He handed over the check, not even blinking at the loss of a good chunk of his savings. House was worth a hundred times that. "Can I take him now, I'm a little anxious to get started... _experimenting_ with him." He saw House flinch and swallow hard. He felt terrible speaking about House like this but he was role playing - House would realise that.

The clerk smiled. "Of course, Doctor Wilson, but procedure has to be observed. The handover has to be formalised at the police station. Thomas will transport your slave there in our van while we finish here."

Thomas tugged on the chain that bound House's hands to his collar. "On your feet, slave."

House made a choking sound as the collar grabbed at his throat and then struggled to his feet. His eyes met Wilson's and Wilson was startled to see him looking defeated. Then he turned away and began limping towards the door, Thomas following closely behind him.

"It was a pleasure to do business with you, Doctor Wilson. I hope you enjoy your new purchase." The clerk held out his hand to shake Wilson's and Wilson took it with distaste. "If you wait in reception your tag will be brought out to you and also your copies of the paperwork. Then you are free to go and collect your slave from the police."

Wilson waited anxiously in the small area set aside for prospective purchasers and after a few minutes the receptionist called him over to the desk and handed him a round tag, made of metal and engraved.

_Owned by James Wilson _

_SAC-RSN 1106590_

He owned a slave.

He owned Greg House.

* * *

**_Three years earlier_**

"So how is our patient?" House asked cheerfully as he entered the diagnostics conference room.

"What are you doing here? Thought you were going to take the weekend off?" Foreman asked.

"If I answer that, is it going to help you diagnose this kid? Oh no! I guess not, let leave the small talk for my birthday party."

Foreman rolled his eyes and Chase ignored their conversation and just updated House with the latest test results on their patient.

"No evidence of arsenic, lead or mercury on the tox screen."

House sat down, put his feet up on the conference room table and pulled his PSP out of his bag starting to play with it. He didn't look up. "Well, do the test again, but do it right this time."

"It´s not heavy metal poisoning," Foreman said in a bored tone of voice.

"Symptoms say it is," House said, concentrating as his on-screen avatar walked into a dangerous situation.

"Test says it isn't." Cameron said, walking into the room.

"Then what are you going to believe, the tests or the symptoms? Do it again, what about food allergies Chase?"

"Dairy, grain, and legumes were all negative, but the kid had burning sensations in his feet while I was doing the allergy test... I had to give him gabapentin to stop the acute pain."

"Might have been nice if you'd mentioned the new symptom at the _beginning_ of the DDX." House dropped the game on the table and stood up, going over to the whiteboard to add it to the list. "Why were you withholding that little gem? Dramatic effect?"

"Er... because we were going in order?" Chase answered tentatively.

"We don't go in order of intelligence in the DDX you idiot, otherwise you'd never get to speak. Symptoms have priority over Foreman's negative tests. Excruciating pain in the lower extremities is a new symptom." He threw down the marker and walked towards the door. "I'm going to go see the kid; maybe_ he_ knows how to present his symptoms."

After he was gone the three fellows stared at each other. House was always rude and impossible to deal with, but this was setting a new standard even for him.

"Okay, well someone got up out of the wrong side of the bed," Chase said, dropping into the closest chair with a sigh.

"Or the wrong leg... "Cameron added, looking at the scrawled writing on the whiteboard.

"I thought he was taking the weekend off," Foreman muttered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Present Day**

There were two things he knew after the infarction.

The first one was that he was always going to be in pain.

The second was that he would never walk normally again. He couldn't run, or play sports. The hard won freedom of his adulthood had been cut short by lameness and pain.

When he bought the motorcycle, it wasn't because he was self-destructive – despite what Wilson might say – it was because it gained him a little bit of his freedom back again. When he was on a motorcycle the speed, and the wind hitting his body, the smell of nature at the sides of the road, all those things made him feel free, and made him smile.

He had never thought that he could lose even more of what he had. Until he had been enslaved.

His first day at a Slave Administration Centre, his first day of processing, when they tattooed their sign on his face had made it clear that he was nothing now. Not a human being. Not any more. Now he was just a body – designed to be used. A body that could be fucked, or punished, or left to rot, at the whim of his owner. Free people could do whatever the hell they liked to him – and they often did. He didn't even have the freedom of his own mind, because even that had been taken from him. All he knew now was fear.

His father used to take him to see them, when he was a child and had done something wrong. 'Look at those slaves, Greg. Look at what they are. One day that will be you'. Then he'd take him home and put a collar around his neck while he punished him. So he knew what it would feel like.

It had been only a matter of time before the collar became real, and he became the slave his father had said he was. He knew that now.

He was shaking with reaction when he was taken out of the office. He was both thankful that Wilson had found him, and bought him, and fearful that Wilson had found him and bought him. Wilson's words had been chilling. House had treated Wilson like shit throughout their friendship, was this Wilson's chance to get revenge? He could legally do whatever he liked to House now. House had been sold to him.

Thomas took hold of one of his arms, half supporting him and half dragging him back to the slave quarters.

"Fucking useless slave, can't believe someone was actually stupid enough to buy you. Thought we'd be stuck for you forever." He let go of House's arm and pointed to the pile of clothes in the corner of the cell. "Put those back on and be quick about it. Don't want to keep the buyer waiting – he might come to his senses."

House quickly put the clothes back on, glad to be covered up again even if the clothes were stained and smelly. They were given fresh clothes once a week and the week was nearly over.

He was taken down a set of steps to the back door of the building where a van waited. He was roughly handcuffed and a hood was put over his head, cutting off both sight and most sound. Then he was grabbed bodily and half thrown face down into the back of the van onto the cold hard floor. He felt a chain being run from his handcuffs to a ring on the floor. Standard slave transport procedures.

He heard the muffled sound of the van door being slammed shut and Thomas taking a seat. Two heavy booted feet rested on the small of his back, keeping him in place throughout the short ride to the police station.

* * *

The handover at the police station happened quickly and efficiently. Wilson was taken to a small bare room, papers were signed and then House was brought out, a leash attached to his collar. He quickly knelt down next to the desk and bowed his head. Wilson noted with relief that he was at least clothed, even if it was in ill-fitting, stained, rags.

"Well Doctor Wilson, that's all done. You can take your slave with you now. Officers from the SAC will come to your home shortly to inspect it, and make sure it is well prepared to house a slave." He looked at House for the first time. "Stand up, slave."

House stood and looked at the police officer.

The officer frowned at him. "Bow your head. You have been a slave long enough to know that you don't look at people until they tell you to."

The message was clear, House was not 'people', the police officer was, Wilson was, House was not. He was just a slave.

House bowed his head but even that was not enough for the officer.

"I talked to you, slave. Acknowledge my order."

"Yes, sir. This slave is sorry, sir." House said quietly, his head still bowed submissively.

The officer was still frowning. He picked up a light cane that was lying on the desk and looked at Wilson. "With your permission, Doctor Wilson?" He said it with the air of expecting it to be granted. A mere formality - to gain permission from the owner before beating a slave.

Wilson stood frozen, realising what he was being asked. He wanted to scream a denial but he couldn't afford to raise suspicion.

He raised a hand carelessly. "Of course."

The blow landed on House's buttocks, making a whipping sound that cut through Wilson. House flinched but otherwise held position and didn't raise his head.

"You're making a poor first impression on your new owner, boy." The officer said, and delivered another quick blow before replacing the cane on the desk. "I can have him taken out back and taught a proper lesson if you like, Doctor Wilson. No harm in starting the way you intend to go on."

"No, no, that won't be necessary," Wilson said hastily. "I've got my own canes at home." He just wanted to get House out of here. He looked around for the walking cane that House had been using in the hotel bathroom but didn't see it.

"No, he just came like that. They don't normally send them with any accessories," the officer answered when Wilson asked about it.

Okay, so that was the first thing he'd have to buy when they got out of here.

"Do you have a leash for him?" The officer said, holding out his hand.

"No. What would I need a leash for? He's not exactly going to run off, he can barely walk without a cane."

"Well, you know you can't walk him out in public without one." The officer sighed and rummaged around in a drawer, coming up with something that looked like a dog leash. "You can use this one; just drop it back into the station when you're done with it."

Wilson took the leash gingerly and the officer looked up at a clock on the wall. "I've got to go, can you see yourself out?"

Wilson nodded numbly and then the officer shook his hand and left.

Wilson and House stared at each other, alone for the first time.

"House, I…" Wilson's voice was shaking.

"Put the fucking leash on my collar so we can get out of here," House said, his voice quiet but desperate.

"I... I can't," Wilson said, his voice just as quiet, sounding more like the slave than House did.

"You have to, it's the law. Don't be an idiot, you have to treat me like a slave or this isn't going to work. I don't want to get the crap whipped out of me because you don't know how to treat a slave." He rubbed at his ass where the cane had cut across it. "I've had more than enough whippings in the last two years..."

"I..." Wilson said and House grabbed the leash out of his hand. He clipped it into one of the d-rings of his collar and then handed the other end to Wilson. "Come on, it's just like walking a dog. Woof!" He looked at Wilson and Wilson could see the fear in his eyes. House was scared. He wasn't safe here.

Wilson made himself grasp the leash and he walked towards the door, feeling House following behind him at the end of the leash. He walked slowly, at House's pace, and tried to forget that he was walking his best friend as if he was a dog.

Wilson felt that all his eyes were upon them as they walked out but nobody stopped them and when they emerged out into the sunlight and open air he breathed a sigh of relief. He felt House freeze behind him and turned to see his friend staring around him.

"The car is this way," Wilson gestured, and House covered up the moment with his usual snark which lifted Wilson's heart to hear.

"You couldn't have parked closer? Cripple, here."

When they finally reached the car Wilson opened the front passenger door and House shook his head.

"I go in the back," he said, opening that door and getting in. "You can take the leash off but you're supposed to put a hood on me. Have you got one?"

Wilson shook his head. "No, I didn't stock up on bondage equipment, House! You're not really my slave. I don't need any of that stuff." He was beginning to realise though that he hadn't thought all this through. He'd only wanted to rescue House; he'd given little consideration to what came next.

"There's a piece of paper that says you do, and your name is on the tag on my collar. You're responsible and if you fuck up I'm the one getting whipped and thrown back in the pound. This isn't 'let's pretend', Wilson."

"Forgive me for trying to rescue you." Wilson went round to the other side of the car and got in the driver's seat - slamming the door shut.

House winced at the noise and the anger in Wilson's voice. He immediately softened his tone. "I'm sorry, Wilson. I just... you can't stuff this up okay? For either of us."

Wilson could count on one hand the number of times House had said sorry to him over the years. When he looked in the driver's mirror he could see his friend sitting there, a heavy collar around his neck, hair cropped back to his skull and a slave tattoo on his cheek. He looked scared.

"Tell me what I need to do," he said. "To keep you safe."

"Get us out of here to start with, and then," he heard House swallow heavily. "You need to buy some equipment."

* * *

The slave supplies warehouse was tucked discreetly down an alley in a dingy part of Princeton. Wilson clipped House's leash back on his collar, this time without an argument, and led him into the building. As soon as they crossed the threshold he saw House's demeanour change. His head dropped and he put his hands behind his back and stood demurely by Wilson's side.

A sales assistant came over to them.

"What can I help with you today, sir?" She addressed Wilson, her eyes flicking over House as if assessing him. "Maybe a new collar for your slave? Or some cuffs? "

"I've just bought him - I need everything I guess? The SAC is going to come out and inspect my premises... "

The woman nodded confidently, obviously pleased with the prospect of a large sale. "Of course, sir. Your first slave?"

Wilson blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. House would have rolled his eyes at his obvious flirting if he wasn't playing the part of the dutiful slave.

"Yes, I'm sorry - I'm a bit inexperienced."

"I can help you with that. First, you need a hood. You shouldn't be transporting him without one." She led the way to a display rack of black hoods. "Head up, slave."

House lifted his head and she selected a hood and dropped it over him. There was a small air hole but otherwise it covered his whole head.

"That will do for transport. Easy to put on and take off. You can attach it to his collar with a chain if he needs it often." She demonstrated. "We have other models with gags and devices that will remove all sensory input if you would like to see them?"

"Er... no, that will do for now. What else?"

She left the hood on House and fetched a set of cuffs and chains. "These are our own model. Strong enough to hold any slave. You can restrain him in a variety of positions using them. Take him over to that holding post and I'll show you."

In the middle of the store was a large steel post with ringbolts set in it. With House hooded Wilson had no choice but to lead him on the leash over to it. Once there the assistant cuffed his hands behind him and ran a chain from them to the post. Bending to his ankles she put a hobble chain in between them.

"As you can see they clip on and off easily. They also lock of course." She demonstrated. "There is also a chain to connect ankles and wrists. Although as your slave is lame that might impede him too much if you need him to walk." She frowned at House. "Close confinement is good punishment though. Slaves hate it. Talking of punishment what do you have?"

"What do I have?"

"Paddles? Crops? Whips?"

"I really don't think I'll be needing anything like that."

"You'll need something. You can't keep a slave without some way to discipline them. Even if your slave is well behaved it pays to give them a touch up now and then to remind them of what they are. The SAC inspectors will want to see that you have some disciplinary tools. We'll get you our basic start-up kit, it's good for beginners." She fetched a colourful plastic pack and removed the wrapping. "Two paddles - one with holes, a crop, a flogger and a small whip. You'll want to invest in some more whips when you're more experienced. They take a bit of skill to use but they are the most effective. Would you like me to demonstrate?"

House was still chained and hooded but Wilson could see him tense.

"No, that won't be necessary. Is that all?"

"Those are the basics. Have you got bedding and food for him? We have a jumbo sized pack of Slave Chow - it provides the slave with all essential nutrients. You should have some on hand for the inspection."

Wilson reluctantly purchased a large container of the chow. There was a picture on the front of a happy slave consuming the contents using only his hands. It looked like nothing more than dog food to him. He certainly didn't intend for House to eat it.

"You should look into getting a cage - it keeps the slave well confined. We have some nice fold-a-way models if you're short on space." She waved a hand to one wall where they were assembled. They appeared to be about the size of large dog kennels.

"I have a bed for him." Wilson said flatly. Surely she wasn't expecting a man of House's height to sleep in one of those tiny cages?

She frowned. "Most people advise against letting slaves use furniture. It sets a bad precedent."

Wilson needed to get out of there, right now. "I think it will be okay. Can you ring up my purchases?"

"Yes, sir. Do you require any sexual aids for him? We have a large range of dildos and cock cages as well as more exotic tools."

Wilson blushed. "No, thanks. I'm not... he's not... "

She nodded. "I understand sir, but even if you're not that way inclined you can rent him out to others. It's one way of earning some money back from your purchase."

Wilson just wanted to get out of there. He was aware of House still standing chained in the middle of the store, listening to every word of their conversation.

"Maybe another time. This will do for now."

The woman looked disappointed but nodded and removed the chains and hood from House, giving him a caressing pat to his genitals as she did so. House stared at the floor, not even reacting to her touch. She laughed.

"He's well trained anyway."

"If you could just ring me up," Wilson said, trying to get her to hurry – and move away from House. This whole thing was making him feel dirty, tainted.

She bundled up the purchases and relieved Wilson of some more of his money. Giving the bags of equipment to House to hold she wished Wilson a good day and gave him a customer loyalty card. "We hope you'll consider us for all your future needs."

They left the store in silence. House on the end of the leash. Back in the car Wilson fingered the hood.

"I'm sorry, House."

House looked away. "Just do it, Wilson. I'm a slave. I'm used to it."

Wilson slipped the hood over his friend's head and they drove back to his apartment in silence.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N - Flashback scene in this chapter written by nickythehippi**

* * *

**Present Day**

Wilson breathed a sigh of relief as he finally shut the door behind House at his apartment. They'd made it. He'd successfully rescued House.

"I can't believe you're here. It's been so long since you disappeared. What happened to you? What have you been doing, where have you been?" The questions rushed out before they'd even left the entryway. He had been in too much of a state of shock during the car trip to talk to him freely, but now they were safe he wanted to know everything. He wanted to know how House had ended up being a slave.

House just stared at him. His expression was shuttered, his eyes distant. "What have I been doing? I've been a fucking slave! You really want me to tell you all the crap I've been through? Believe me Wilson, you don't want to know."

"You need to talk about it..."

"No, I don't," House cut him off. "There's one thing I don't need to do and that's 'talk about it'. Ever."

They both stood in silence for a moment before House sighed.

"It's not over, Wilson. You need to know that. You may have brought me here," he waved a hand at the apartment, "but it's not over. Not while this collar is on my neck. You have no idea. You should have left me where I was."

Wilson was horrified to hear him talking like that. "You can't be serious!"

"I'm just going to make your life fucking difficult. You can barely look at me, let alone do what you need to do to me." He turned and limped down the hallway to the living room. There he stopped and stared.

The baby grand piano from his old apartment in Princeton was there.

When House had disappeared Wilson had taken over the lease of his apartment, keeping the rent payments up. He held out hope that House would one day come back and need a place to live. After two years he'd had to face the reality that it wasn't going to happen. He'd had most of House's possessions put into storage but the piano he'd had moved to his place. House would never have forgiven him if he'd let the piano rot somewhere.

House went over to it and touched the gleaming surface. He carefully opened the lid over the keys and stared down at them, swallowing hard.

Wilson waited expectantly but House put the lid back down gently without touching the keys. He just stood there with his head hanging down. Then he limped down the hallway towards the guest bedroom.

Watching his awkward gait reminded Wilson of the one other thing he'd kept for House. He retrieved the spare cane he'd found in House's apartment and followed the other man down the hallway.

House had stopped at the door to the bedroom and was surveying it.

Wilson hadn't had chance to make the room up for House specifically - he hadn't been home since first seeing House, events had moved that quickly - but he always kept it ready as a guest bedroom.

"This is where I'm sleeping?" House asked, his eyes riveted on the quite ordinary bed.

"Yes, the linen is clean but let me know if you need anything else. I haven't had chance to get things ready. I want you to be comfortable here."

House turned to look at him and then his eyes flicked to the cane in Wilson's hand. Wilson held it out. House took it wordlessly, his fingers fitting over the curved wooden handle.

"It's okay, House. Everything is going to be okay now," Wilson said. "You're home." He tentatively put a hand on House's shoulder, hoping to reassure him. Instead he felt House flinch away from him, as if expecting a blow. Wilson quickly dropped his hand and they stood in silence - a gulf lay between them that Wilson had no idea how to cross.

* * *

"Cuddy, are you back in Princeton?" Wilson asked, holding the cellphone in his left hand.

"Hi Wilson! Yes, I just got home tonight. I had a great trip, if you ignore my Mom and sister. What's up?"

"I need to see you."

"Okay, we can have lunch tomorrow at work, if I get out from under the mound of paperwork that is probably rotting on my desk."

"No, I need to see you now." Wilson said urgently. He couldn't carry this knowledge by himself any longer. He needed to talk to his friend. Cuddy would be able to help.

"Can't it wait until tomorrow? I'm knocked out from the flight."

"It's about House," he said, lowering his voice.

"What? House? Did you find him?" Her voice was filled with excitement. Like himself, she'd never completely given up hope that she'd see him again. "Is he okay? Oh Wilson, don't tell me he's..."

"He's alive, Cuddy. But I can't talk now. I'll meet you at Berlin," he said, naming a coffee-shop near his place that they sometimes went to. "I'll be there in twenty, okay? Wait for me."

When Wilson got there Cuddy was already there, waiting anxiously at a table. She plied him with questions and he waved his hands.

"I'll tell you everything; just give me a minute please." He quickly filled her in on the accidental meeting at the New York conference. Strange to describe meeting House in the bathroom of the hotel rather than attending the conference as the world famous doctor he was.

"He's... he's a slave, Lisa. He has been for two years."

Cuddy stared at Wilson in shock, her clear grey eyes already shining with tears, her hand covering her mouth.

"No... not _House. _He couldn't... he wouldn't..."

Wilson knew what she meant. House was the last person he could ever have seen becoming a slave.

"At first he pretended he didn't know us, that he had been mind-wiped. Later on he told me he couldn't cope with the idea that we would see him like that. He just wanted us to go away and forget we'd ever seen him."

"What do you mean, 'later'? Did you talk to him again? Where is he? We have to get him back."

"He was 'working' for Rent-A-Slave in New York. I brought him yesterday - they were keen to sell him. A crippled middle aged slave isn't worth much apparently."

"You have him?"

Wilson nodded. "Yes. He's at my apartment."

"That's brilliant, Wilson. Now you can free him."

"No, I thought the same but it's not allowed. House was given a minimum sentence of seven years - he's been a slave for two, he has to stay enslaved for another five before he can be freed."

"Seven years? Shit, Wilson. What the hell did he do?"

"I could barely get it out of him; he doesn't want to talk about it. He's ashamed of what happened. I had to piece it together and I think I still don't know the half of it." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. House was really reluctant to say anything at all about those missing three years. The couple of days he'd been at Wilson's apartment he'd mostly spent staring out the window.

"After you... after what happened he just took off. Left all his stuff behind as you know, got on his motorcycle and disappeared. He told me he moved around a lot and lived off his savings. He couldn't get his Vicodin legally without using his real name and he couldn't do that. So he bought Vicodin illegally, and maybe other drugs as well, he wasn't very clear on that. The cops busted him when he had a big stash; he was convicted of dealing and sentenced to seven years enslavement."

"He could have contacted us; we would have gotten him a better lawyer, a deal, something!"

Wilson shrugged. "That's what I told the idiot. You know how he is - he stuck his head in the sand and pretended it wasn't happening until it was too late."

"I need to see him -he's at your apartment?" Cuddy stood up, in a hurry to go and see him. Maybe she could do something to help.

"Yes, but... he doesn't want to see you, Cuddy. He doesn't want to see anyone. He's barely tolerating me seeing him like that."

"Like what?"

"Like... like a slave."

"Well, that's stupid. It's been three years, Wilson. I need to see him. I need to talk to him." She found her voice breaking and Wilson hugged her tight.

"I know it's hard, Cuddy. But House has lost everything. All his possessions, his career, his freedom, everything. He's been trained to be a slave. He's been told he doesn't have any human rights, that he isn't a human being anymore. He's a slave - he's just property. What he went through at the Slave Administration Centre I can't begin to guess. There are scars... so many scars, Cuddy." His own voice filled with tears. "He needs time. He can't even look me in the eye. He's ashamed of what he's become. I think... I think he would almost have preferred that I never found him."

He looked up and out of the window and his eyes widened. A SAC response vehicle was driving down the road. As he watched it pulled up outside his apartment and a squad of officers piled out.

"Oh, shit!" He let go of Cuddy and ran for the door, Cuddy following close behind him as they ran up the road to Wilson's apartment.

* * *

**Three Years Ago**

Their patient was in the pediatric wing. The bright colors and happy clown faces that were painted on the walls made a sharp contrast to the sick child, lying in a bed in a single room. The child's parents were seated by his bedside, the mother was holding the boy's hand - the father was sitting a little bit back from the bed. His arms were crossed and he was leaning back in the chair, a bored expression on his face.

Both adults looked up as House entered.

House ignored the parents' surprised looks as he threw the door open and walked over to the sleeping child. House would have been sleeping too, if it hadn't been for Cuddy's persistence in getting him on this case. The least the kid could do was be awake long enough for House to ask him some questions.

"Who are you?" Asked the boy's mother in a tired but concerned voice. She instinctively put a hand out to stop him getting near her child.

House glanced at her for a moment and then back down to the child. "I'm just a figment of your imagination. Sitting near bedsides for hours on end can lead to hallucinations." He tapped the bed rails with his cane. "Wake up, need to ask you some questions."

The boy let out a moan of pain as he stirred. The father got up from his chair and moved towards the bed. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

House looked at the man in faked confusion, "Well... I thought I was waking the patient up so I could figure out what is killing him, but if you'd rather I didn't then we can forget all about this and I can get back to my soaps." He gave the man a hopeful look. "All you have to do is tell Doctor Cuddy that you'd rather not have me on the case and poof... I'm gone. People do it all the time," he reassured him. "And what's one kid's life after all? You've probably got some spares at home."

"Brad," the woman said reaching an arm out to him but stopping just before touching him. "If he can help we should let him.

Brad was glaring at House like he'd rather hit him than talk to him. He looked at his wife and then threw his hands up in exasperation.

"Do whatever you want. I'm sure you know best." His voice was heavily sarcastic as he said the latter and Claire looked nervous. After looking at Brad for reassurance and receiving none she turned to House. "This has been hard on all of us; none of us have gotten much rest. This is the first time Timothy has been able to sleep for more than half an hour," she said giving her son a sympathetic look and then looking back at House. "My name is Claire, who are you?"

"You can call me Doctor House, or God - either is fine. I'm your son's doctor."

There was a sound from the bed and House looked down at his patient. Timothy had woken up. He was obviously in pain, but he didn't cry out like most children would. He was three years old; he shouldn't be lying there stoically enduring the pain without complaining.

"Hey, kid - how does your throat feel?" He asked.

"His name is Timothy," Brad said. "If you're his doctor why haven't we seen you before now? Where the fuck have you been?"

"I try to avoid seeing patients as much as possible - it makes me unhappy. When I'm unhappy I start ordering all kinds of crazy test. Ask my last patient in room B604 if you don't believe me. Now, if you don't mind I was talking to your spawn here." He turned to the child again, observing how he watched them with wary eyes, but still didn't speak. "Timothy, does your throat hurt?"

Timothy glanced at his parents and then back at House. "My chest hurts," he said softly.

House nodded, "I know about your chest, but what about your throat? Does it hurt to talk?"

Timothy looked at House with wide eyes, "No, sir."

House's frowned. He turned to Claire. "He's not whining and complaining about the pain like most kids his age would be. Is that normal for him?"

Claire seemed to think about it some, "Well when he was a baby he cried about everything but in the last year he's really grown up. He hardly ever makes a fuss about anything," she said with a small, proud smile that quickly faded. "Why? Is it important?"

House looked at the father. "Most children his age, and most people, verbalize pain - it's a natural response."

"I didn't raise my son to be a cry-baby," Brad answered in a calm neutral tone, but his eyes were hard as he stared at House.

House felt himself tensing as he wondered how the man had 'raised' his son. He noticed that the man was in great shape with cropped hair, intense eyes and the air of a fighter. "Which branch did you serve in?" he asked casually.

"How did you know..." Claire began to ask, surprised, but was abruptly cut off by her husband.

"Marines in Afghanistan for two tours, six years total," Brad said with pride. "Have you served?"

House smirked, he'd found what the man loved and now he was going to see how Brad handled it when someone diminished it. "No, I had a brain and decided to use it rather than follow orders like a toy soldier."

Brad stood up gritting his teeth. "You're a coward! While you were hiding behind your books at some nice college brave men were fighting for your freedom." He eye was twitching and his hands were balled into fists. His wife put a hand on his forearm but he shrugged her off.

"You sound like my dad; he was in the Marines too. He's a very tough, brave, and patriotic man but just between us he isn't the sharpest tool in the shed," House said with a grin. "He can't do math in his head or write an essay, but he can kill just about anything. Seriously, the man would hunt bears with a bow. He was the perfect little toy soldier."

Brads face was red with anger, "Your cocky ungrateful sack of crap, you'd speak about your own father who served to protect his country, to protect _you_ like that!" he said taking a step towards House. "I ought to show you just how a marine fights!"

"Brad, don't, not now," Claire pleaded trying to hold him back, "It's not important."

Brad turned to her, "What did you say to me?" he barked at her with a warning glare.

House had the reaction he had been aiming for. He turned away from Brad and watched Timothy whose body was trembling as his father's voice rose. He was taking quick, panicked breaths. His was scared of his father's anger. House knew how that felt.

House looked back to see Brad and Claire arguing. "Are any of your family or friends in the medical field?" he asked as the man let go of the hold he had on his wife's thin wrists.

Brad turned to him again as his wife drew away from him. Her cheeks were reddened and wet with tears. "Why the hell do you want to know?"

"That's a 'no' then," House said with a shrug, "I'm not surprised."

Brad puffed out his chest, "Actually my father is a veterinarian, you bastard," he answered. "I helped him ever since I was ten and still am while I'm getting my degree in business management. So how does that fit with your idea that everyone who served this country is an idiot?"

House kept the smile off his face; the man had given him everything he needed to prove what he was already thinking. There was no doubt in House's mind that this man was abusing his son and even if the boy's hospital records didn't prove it he would bet money that if they did full body scans they were going to find evidence of past injuries. Injuries that hadn't been treated at a hospital. After that all that would be left was to find out what the father was doing, or using, to make him so sick.

"Most people are idiots," House answered, replacing Timothy's chart. The child was still watching him and he held out his fist to him. Timothy's eyes were wide as he stared at him, and then he tentatively put his fist out as well. House bumped it gently and was rewarded by a genuine smile.

"Do you know what's wrong with him?" Claire asked anxiously.

"Not yet, but we will." House stared straight at Brad. "Then we can help him."


	5. Chapter 5

**Present day**

By the time he reached his apartment the door had been kicked in and there were several SAC officers yelling at House to ' get the fuck down, now, slave!'. He was held back from entering by one of them but he was just able to see House lying on the floor. The men tore at his clothes, ripping them off his body and held his face to the ground as they cuffed his hands behind him and ran a chain from them up to his collar. When he was helpless they ran gloved hands all over him, including spreading his ass cheeks and jamming a probe up inside him. When they were finished they picked him up bodily and stood him up, face jammed against a wall. One officer held him in that position. Wilson could hear House's breath coming in agonised gasps.

"Stop! Don't hurt him!" Wilson yelled and he was finally allowed in the room, a horrified Cuddy on his heels.

"This your slave, sir?"

"Yes. I... I just bought him a couple of days ago. Why are you doing that to him?"

"Slave was alone in the house, and not restrained. We came around to inspect the premises and saw him through the window, playing your piano. Didn't know what had happened to his owner."

"Nothing! I just went for coffee with a friend."

"The law is that you secure the slave if you're leaving. Chain him up. Slaves are_ not _to be left unattended and unrestrained in residential premises at any time."

"I didn't know." Wilson swallowed down his anger at House's treatment and struggled to look repentant. "I'm sorry, it won't happen again."

"Slave should have told you." The officer went over to House and yanked his head back. His fearful eyes met Wilson's and then widened when he saw Cuddy staring at him. "You piece of dirt - getting your owner in trouble like this. Well - you know what's coming to you."

He looked around and pointed to Wilson's couch. "Put him over that," he said to one of his men.

House was dragged over to the couch and forced over the arm until his face was smashed into the cushions and his naked ass was on display to them all. The officer kicked at his legs until he spread them widely.

"Got your own cane?" The officer asked Wilson.

"No. Look, this isn't necessary. It wasn't his fault."

"It was both of yours. But I can't cane you." He unclipped a long thin cane from his belt and rested it against House's twitching buttocks. He tapped it lightly a couple of times and Wilson could see the flesh tightening in anticipation of the blows to come. His eyes were drawn to the scars that he'd only glimpsed before. Thin white lines, littering House's back and ass. He'd been caned before, many times.

"Slaves are scum, Doctor Wilson. They're criminals and you can't trust them. They need discipline." The officer drew the cane back and whipped it through the air to slash at House's ass. Wilson flinched at the sound it made when it connected with the flesh. An angry welt immediately appeared. House gasped but otherwise made no sound of protest.

"Count the strokes, slave." The officer said, dragging the cane back over the red mark, causing House to flinch away. The officer cuffed him on the shoulder. "Stay still."

"One, sir." House said, his voice hoarse.

The officer turned to Wilson. "If you don't discipline him, we will." The cane came down for another blow.

As Cuddy and Wilson watched House received six strokes of the cane. Each stroke caused a red line to appear and the last two blows brought drops of blood along the line. The officer stayed calm throughout, as if this was routine. He lectured Wilson on his responsibilities as a slave owner between each one. From what Wilson could gather his responsibility was to be as brutal as possible to his slave.

When it was finally over House was released from the couch to collapse on the ground, his breath coming in heaving gasps. His whole body was trembling in pain.

"Thank me." The officer placed a boot on House's naked thigh, dangerously near to his scar. "For disciplining you."

House dragged himself to a humble kneeling position, one that must have caused agony to both his leg and the wounds on his ass.

"Thank you, sir, for teaching this slave."

The officer put one booted foot out in front of House. "Kiss it."

House lowered his lips to the boot and kissed the surface. Wilson heard Cuddy crying behind him and was torn between doing the same and tackling the SAC officer to the ground.

"Good boy." The officer bent down and patted House on the head, as one might a dog that had learnt its lesson. "Now get back over the couch while we check out your master's place and see if he'll be allowed to keep you."

He watched as House dragged himself over to the couch and resumed his former position, head down in the cushions and tortured ass on display. The officer gave a quick smack to the worst of the welts and then turned to Wilson.

"Please show us the rest of the apartment, Doctor Wilson. As you are aware there are certain requirements that must be met if you are to keep this slave here."

Wilson looked at House, lying draped over the arm of the couch, naked, six vivid red lines slashed across his buttocks, dried blood on the ends of some of them. With an effort he dragged his attention away and forced his feet to take him in the direction of the hallway.

"Where would you like to see?"

"First, let's see the place where the slave sleeps."

Wilson winced at the way he said it. He wasn't expecting House to have a bedroom. Was he expecting a sheet dropped on the floor of the kitchen so that House could sleep besides the dishwasher? Maybe a cage or a dog basket for him to curl up in at night?

With a sinking heart he led them towards House's room.

"This is the room the slave sleeps in," he said, as harshly as he could.

The officer and two of his offsiders crowded into the room, their eyes wide.

The youngest officer laughed. "The slave's room is larger than mine. Are you his owner or are you his?"

"That's enough, Harris!" The older officer snapped. "I'm sure Doctor Wilson has an explanation for this."

He turned to Wilson. "I apologise for my partner's remark. I _am_ wondering why your slave sleeps in a room that is made for people. Slaves are not supposed to use furniture, let alone furniture like this. Your slave is used to a mat on the floor - that is all he needs."

Wilson had had enough of these people, coming into his home and treating House like dirt. He decided he had to stand up for himself.

"I really don't care what other people do with their slaves. This is my home, he is my slave, and I will decide what he needs. My slave is crippled as I'm sure you've noticed. I want him to do a full day's work, every day, so I need him to sleep off the floor and on a bed that will leave him able to move in the morning."

The officer regarded him sceptically but then nodded. "Okay, the bed can stay, but the other furnishings must go. If there is a smaller room available he should be put in it."

After a tour of the rest of the apartment they came back to the living area, where House was still bent over the arm of the couch. Cuddy was standing nearby, still with a shocked expression on her face. She was looking anywhere but at House.

The SAC officer who had stayed in the living room was holding something up. He looked at his superior, an eager expression on his young face.

"Sir, I found this in the slave's clothing."

Wilson realised with a sinking feeling that he was holding up a bottle of Vicodin - the one that he'd obtained for House yesterday. House had been wearing an old pair of Wilson's sweats, and the bottle had no doubt been in the pocket of those.

The older officer took it off his junior, examining it closely.

"You prescribed these for the slave?"

Wilson nodded casually. "Yes, he has a pre-existing condition as you've noticed. He experiences incapacitating chronic pain for which he was on medication at Rent-A-Slave."

"Did you let him keep these on him? Or did he steal them while you were out?"

Which was the better answer? Wilson realised belatedly that slaves probably weren't allowed to keep pills on them. But stealing them would be even worse.

"I told him to keep them in his pocket and take them three times a day," he said. "Is that wrong?"

The officer sighed. "I don't think you understand what you are dealing with here, Doctor Wilson. This here," he indicated House with a sweep of his arm, "is a slave. A criminal. You can't trust him to wipe his own ass let alone take medication on a schedule. He cannot keep those pills on him. You need to give them to him personally. Have him open his mouth and put the pill on his tongue. Check his mouth afterwards to make sure he swallowed it. Like you would a dog. And as it's only pain medication you can also use them for discipline. Withhold them if he misbehaves." He passed the bottle to Wilson. "Don't give him anymore today. There's no point caning them and then letting them take something for the pain. By the morning he should be ready to be more obedient."

Wilson took the bottle and nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Cuddy and he shot a warning glance at her. He could see she wanted to intervene but they had to pretend to go along with all this lunacy. For House's sake.

"Is there anything else?" he asked, hoping there wasn't. He wanted these people out of his house, and he wanted to check on House.

"What about food, what are you feeding him?" Harris, the officer who had been reprimanded in the bedroom asked. "They should only be fed a plain diet, with occasional treats for good behaviour."

"I have a jumbo pack of Slave Chow in the kitchen, it's in that corner," Wilson indicated the direction with a wave of his hand. "One scoop in the morning, one at night."

With an effort Wilson made himself move to House, and ran a hand through his head. He felt House shudder and hoped that his friend realised why he was doing this. "If I'm pleased with him he can have the scraps off my plate. You enjoy that, don't you, Greg?" There was a pause and then House answered in a quiet voice. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Good boy," Wilson said, still patting House's hair.

The older officer eyed him narrowly. "Well, this is mostly in order. Your chains and cuffs are good. You'll need a restraint harness for your car and bars on the window. We will give you a week to comply and then come and inspect again."

"Yes officer, I've already made arrangements for the bars."

"And don't forget - he must be restrained when you're not here. You can't let him roam around by himself. He might escape and hurt someone - a neighbour, or a child."

"Greg, look at me," Wilson said sternly and House twisted his head around to look. "What did I tell you before I left the house this morning?"

"To wait in my room, sir. You were going out for ten minutes, sir."

"And what did you do instead?"

"I left my room and came into the living room. I started to play the piano, sir. This slave is sorry, sir. It won't happen again, "House said, playing his part well. He sounded like a scared slave.

"You can bet it won't. Next time you won't be sitting for a month - and not just because I'll cane your ass black and blue."

"It won't, sir."

"So, we're done here?" Wilson asked and the officer nodded. He went to House and roughly unlocked the chains that still bound him, handing them off to one of his men and telling House to stay put.

He gestured to his men and they trooped out of the house.

The officer in charge paused at the top of the stairs, as his men went to the truck.

"It's a good act, Doctor Wilson. But I don't believe for a minute that you're the sort of man who'd own a slave without an ulterior motive. If you've bought this slave to give him an easy life then you're preventing him from being punished the way he should be. If we can prove that we'll take the slave in a heartbeat, and you'll be up before the court. So if you have something to say, say it now."

Wilson didn't say anything and the officer nodded. "We'll be keeping an eye on both of you. Goodbye, Doctor Wilson."

Wilson watched them go with mixed feelings of relief and dread. This whole thing was turning out to be a lot more difficult than he could ever have anticipated. For one moment he wanted to stay out here and not go back inside and face what waited for him in there. Instead he took a deep breath and went back into the apartment, closing the door firmly behind him. For the time being, at least, they were safe.

House was standing up from the position he had been in, Cuddy was hovering behind him - one hand half raised, as if she wasn't sure whether she should offer support or not. House's right leg was visibly trembling.

Wilson was there, inserting one shoulder under House and helping him to lie down on his side on the couch. House stiffened against him but allowed the help. Wilson grabbed a throw rug from the side of the couch and quickly threw it over him, covering his nakedness up. House stared straight ahead, his body trembling in reaction.

"House, I'm so sorry..." Cuddy said. "If I'd known what would happen... I never would have... "

House couldn't meet her eyes. He stared at the surface of the blanket, curling in on himself and turning his head away. He didn't speak.

"Maybe you should go," Wilson said. He knew House wouldn't want her to see him like this. She'd already seen too much.

"I need to... "she trailed off and Wilson wondered what she needed to do. To fix this? Their friend was a broken slave - and had to remain one for years. There was no fixing this. All they could do was try and give House a little dignity.

"I need to treat those wounds. Please leave Cuddy. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"But..."

"Please Cuddy, just leave. There's nothing you can do." His eyes met hers._ For House,_ he said silently and she glanced at their friend, still curled on the couch and nodded.

"If you need anything, anything at all, call me."

She went reluctantly and Wilson turned back to House.

"You should give me back. I'm only ever going to cause you problems." House said, his voice hollow, his eyes averted. "You might even get a refund."

"NO!" The last thing he was going to ever do was give House back to the people who had done this to him. He'd be whipped himself before he ever let that happen. "You're never going back. I promise you that, House."

He regarded his friend. He needed to examine House's wounds and then get him cleaned up. He wanted to get House away from the couch and from the memory of what had just happened so he urged him to his feet - still wrapped in the blanket - and supported him as they went to House's bedroom.

"Lie down and I'll take a quick look," Wilson said, "and then you can take a shower."

House laid face down on the bed and let Wilson remove the blanket. His compliance was yet another sign that this was not the old House that Wilson was used to.

The old lash marks stood out starkly against his pale skin. Wilson bit his lip as he looked at them. House had been whipped, many times and soundly. What else had happened to him?

First things first, he grabbed the Vicodin and gave House a couple of pills - that would at least take the edge off the pain. Then he put some gel on the welts on House's ass. It would help heal and also soothe the burn from the cuts but House wouldn't be sitting comfortably for a while.

Wilson worked quickly, keeping his touch professional. It wasn't the first time he'd seen House naked, but the circumstances were bizarre. His friend had been utterly humiliated in front of him. There was nothing Wilson could say that would make that better.

When he was finished Wilson tidied the first aid kit away and went in search of some more of his old clothes. When he returned he was dismayed to see that House hadn't moved while he was gone, not even to cover himself.

"Here," he said briskly, "put these clothes on after you take a shower. I am going to cook some pasta for dinner." He left the room, his heart breaking for his friend.

* * *

Once he was alone House dragged himself off the bed. He'd been told to shower so he needed to do it, although all he wanted was to lie on the bed, covered in the blanket and pretend nothing had happened.

In the shower he ran the water as hot as he could tolerate it and scrubbed himself as hard as he could, trying to rid his skin of the touch of those men. Their hands had been all over him, and it had all taken place in front of his friends. What Wilson and Cuddy had witnessed... he'd never wanted them to see anything like that - even if it hadn't been as bad as many of the things that had happened to him over the last two years. They weren't used to it. They still saw him as 'Greg House' not the slave he was.

The wounds on his ass stung as the water hit them and his tears of pain mingled with the hot water of the shower until he couldn't tell one from the other.

Wilson's old clothes fitted poorly, the sweatpants were short, and the t-shirt hung off him. One thing slavery was good for was losing weight. House was a shadow of his former size. Still they covered up his former nakedness, and they felt better against his skin than the coarse slave clothes he'd worn. A hot shower and fresh clean clothes - luxuries he hadn't had for two years.

As he walked into the kitchen he imagined for one moment that he was just hanging out with Wilson again, like they had so many times before. They'd have a few beers and watch the game on TV, and then in the morning they'd go to work at PPTH.

The illusion didn't hold. He could feel the heavy, cold, metal collar locked tightly around his neck, and the humiliating tag hanging from it. The tag that marked him as Wilson's property - not his friend, but his property. He was marked as an animal would be - so he could be returned to his owner if he strayed. So that everyone would know who owned him.

He took a seat at the table, hissing when his ass made contact with the hard surface of the chair. He composed his expression - he wasn't going to show his pain to Wilson, or ask for a cushion.

Wilson put a plate in front of him and then sat down with his own and started eating. House stared at the food - waiting for the order to eat. Slaves didn't eat without express permission.

Wilson stopped eating and looked at him, puzzled. "House? Aren't you hungry? You like pasta don't you?" Then understanding dawned over his face. "House, you don't have to wait for me to give you an order. I told you, you're not a slave here."

_The hell I'm not,_ House thought. He didn't say anything aloud - just nodded at Wilson and took up his fork clumsily, eating slowly, and enjoying eating real food and not the Slave Chow that had been his only meal for the last two years. He was conscious of Wilson's unease as he tried to act like everything was normal. Wilson hadn't come to terms with what House was now - a slave, a piece of dirt, less than a human being, even less than a fucking house pet. At least pets were valued by their owners.

"Why did you talk to Cuddy?" asked House quietly still eating his food. Wilson was struck again by how quiet he was now - the spark that used to light him up was gone, only occasionally showing in glimmers.

"She needed to know, she was worried like hell about you disappearing. She's your friend, House. She never stopped looking for you, not for a single day." Wilson didn't tell him that _he_ needed to talk to someone, to share the burden of knowledge, if only for a few minutes. Wilson couldn't do this by himself.

"She doesn't need this, Wilson. You should have asked me first. You saw how she was crying during that fucking pathetic scene. This is too much for someone like Cuddy. She'll feel guilty and we'll all drown in her tears," House said angrily but Wilson could see fear in his eyes. House was scared of talking like this to his owner. Wilson felt sick. Is that how House would come to see him?

"I couldn't hide this from her forever House! What do you want me to do? Keep you hidden in this apartment for the next five years?"

"Yes! I don't want her to see what they've done to me. You know Cuddy; she'll want to _fix_ it. She can't handle this sort of reality, Wilson." House wasn't meeting his eyes and Wilson's heart broke for him - again.

"House, seeing that was hard for me too. I didn't mean for her to walk into a scene like that - I had no idea the SAC were coming. But you shouldn't be worrying about how _we_ feel about it. _You _were the one being hurt. What they did to you..."

"... was nothing. Shit, if you think that's bad... If you think that hurt me..." House stopped, choking up. He shook his head. "I told you before, you should send me back. What I did - I brought this on myself. This is my mess, nobody elses. It doesn't matter what happens to me. I deserve this. You don't. I don't want to drag you down with me."

Wilson looked at him incredulously; he couldn't believe what his friend was saying.

"What the HELL are you TALKING ABOUT, no person deserves this House, it's barbaric!" He slammed his fist down on the table, causing the plates to jump. House cringed away from him. His hands were shaking and his lips trembling. He slid out of his chair and knelt on the floor, head bowed.

"I am sorry, sir. I didn't mean to make you angry. This slave will do better, sir. I promise."

Wilson stared at him, frightened for his friend. House was more traumatised than he had ever realised. He'd gone from his old snarky self to a trembling slave in an instant.

"I'll be good, sir. Please don't hurt me." House continued, in almost a whisper.

Wilson knelt on the ground next to House and engulfed him in an embrace. They had never hugged... before. But now he needed the contact. He needed to bring House back from wherever he had gone.

"It's me, it's Wilson, House. I'm not going to hurt you. I will never hurt you. I'm sorry - I'm sorry I yelled." He hung on tight and gradually House relaxed against him. "You didn't do anything wrong. This is not your fault. Nothing is your fault."

"Thank you, sir," House whispered. "This slave is grateful. I'll do better..."

They stayed huddled on the floor for a long time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Present day**

Wilson spent a restless night, struggling to sleep. His dreams were filled of uniformed officers invading his home and beating his friend. Twice he got up and went to House's room and stared in at him through the open door, making sure he was still there. Eventually he dropped off, exhausted, only to wake a couple of hours later when he heard movement in the apartment.

He dragged himself out of bed and pulled on some old clothes. Rubbing sleep out of his eyes he went to the kitchen, only to find House already there. House had always been a later riser, and very much not a morning person, but here he was, and for the look of things he'd been up for some time. Just another thing that showed how much his friend had changed.

He looked around, blinking his eyes. The dirty dishes from the night before were nowhere in sight. All the bench surfaces had been cleaned until they sparkled. The floor had been swept and House was on his hands and knees, cleaning it with a rag and bucket of water. The tiles were shining. Wilson had never seen the kitchen this clean.

"What the hell are you doing, House?"

House looked at him, startled, his eyes wide.

"Cleaning."

"You don't have to do that. I told you - you're not my slave. You don't have to..." he waved a hand around the kitchen, "... clean."

House went back to his scrubbing. "I have to be your slave. The SAC are watching us. That little performance we put on yesterday didn't fool them. If I'm to stay here you have to treat me like a slave. I can't... I can't afford for them to think I'm not one. If they come in and the place isn't spotless they'll know. I'll have to go back. You said you didn't want that."

"I don't want this either."

"Well, suck it up." He kept speaking without pausing in his work. "You need to get rid of some of the furniture in my room too. And put the chains in there ready. One set attached to the bed. And get a cage."

"I'm not putting you in a fucking cage! Surely they didn't do that to you!" House froze in place, trembling at Wilson's angry tone. Wilson reminded himself that he had to stay calm, for House's sake. He put one hand on House's shoulder.

"Sorry. I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at _them_."

"Cages aren't all bad." House shrugged and wrung out his rag in the water, going back to work. "They can't do anything to you when you're in one."

* * *

Later that day, after House had done a thorough job of cleaning the apartment, Wilson decided to start working through the things they needed to do. He passed House one of his old rolltop sweaters and a jacket.

House raised an eyebrow. "And you've given me this rolltop to wear because?"

"If you wear that you can conceal the collar. It will make it easier for you to go shopping," Wilson said. Truthfully he didn't want to be seen out in public with a slave at the end of a leash.

House thrust the top back at him. "This," he pointed to the collar around his neck - the one Wilson could barely look at. "This is not _the_ collar, this is _my_ collar, and I can't just conceal it. I can't pretend it doesn't exist."

"Do whatever you want. I thought you'd like to hide it." Wilson was tired of having all his ideas rejected. He was trying to do his best for House, and all his efforts were being thrown back into his face.

"Of course I'd like to hide it!" House said angrily. "You think I like having a fucking metal collar around my neck? But what happens when someone sees the tattoo on my cheek and realises that I'm a slave, and I'm hiding my collar? That's attempted escape. Fifty lashes of the whip, minimum, and chains for the rest of my sentence. No thanks."

"Fine! You're right, let's just go then." Wilson turned towards the door and House picked up the leather leash that had been lying on the table by the door since their trip here. He thrust it at Wilson.

"You need to put this on me."

Wilson looked at the leash and at House who wasn't looking at him. He took a deep breath and clicked the leash onto House's collar. He had to get used to this. He would _never_ get used to this.

When they got to the car House got in the back seat and Wilson dropped the hood over his head.

He drove in silence.

* * *

They had to park at a distance from the stores. House wasn't entitled to a disabled parking permit now. Wilson held the leash and House walked behind him. A man and his young child passed them and the child stared at House.

"Daddy, why is that man walking on a leash?" The child asked, in a loud voice and the father looked at them and then away.

"He is a slave; the other man is his owner." He bent and picked his child up; as if afraid that House would attack him.

"Is he a bad man?"

"I told you, he isn't a man - he's a slave."

Wilson turned to say something to the man and House touched his arm lightly. "Don't," he said quietly. "Not here."

"He shouldn't talk about you like that, not to that child." Wilson protested but he was already turning away.

"So now you're going to be some sort of advocate for slave rights? This sort of shit has always gone on - you only care now because I'm a slave and it's in your face."

They had arrived at the store and House diverted Wilson's attention by looking at the name.

"Lacoste? You want to dress me like a mini-you?"

"There's nothing wrong with the way I dress. It will do you good to look a bit fashionable for once."

"Lacoste is expense. Slaves are more 'dressed by Walmart'. Buying me fancy clothes is not going to help convince the SAC that you don't care about me. All I need is a pair of jeans, a few plain t-shirts, some socks and underwear and one pair of sneakers. I don't need sweater vests and ties. I'm just a fucking cleaning slave."

Wilson sighed, defeated. He hated hearing House describe himself like that. But he was right. He looked around to the next shop. It was no Walmart but it was less expensive. "Okay, I don't want to drive someone where else. This one will do." As they changed course to the other store a businessman walked past them, not paying attention and crashing into House's cane.

House fell and Wilson felt the leash jerk as it tightened. He quickly let go and House fell heavily to the ground. The man was about to apologize and help him up when he saw the collar and leash. Instead of apologizing he kicked at the fallen man.

"Fucking slave, getting in the way like that. Moron. Should be caged not walking the streets." He turned to Wilson. "Are you supposed to be in charge of him? Keep a better hold on the damned leash."

He stormed off and Wilson knelt down to check on House.

"Are you okay?" He put out his hand to help House up. House batted his hand out of the way with an angry wince and used the cane to lever himself back up to his feet.

"Yeah, I'm fucking fine," he said under his breath, "Fucking free people." The last was almost whispered, and only said after a quick look around to check that no-one was within earshot.

A sales clerk came up to them and Wilson wondered how much of the scene outside he had observed.

"How can I help you today, sir?" The clerk smiled at Wilson, totally ignoring the slave by his side.

"I need to buy some clothes for my slave." Wilson played his role, pointing at House with a casual gesture.

"Okay, we'll just put the slave in one of the cages and pick out some clothes for him."

"Oh, that's not necessary," Wilson protested. The clerk shook his head.

"Sorry, it's store policy that all slaves be caged while they're here."

Wilson had never taken much notice of the slave cages in shops before. Most shops had one or two; banks and restaurants usually had several. They were just there, part of the furniture of the shop. Sometimes there were slaves in them, and Wilson had glanced at them and never thought much of it.

Now, as he led House towards the ones in this store, he wondered how he could have never let himself question it.

The cage was at least clean, if bare. It was a shallow upright one, placed discreetly in a corner. There was a small bench House could sit on if he wanted, and carpet on the floor. The clerk unlocked it and Wilson ordered House into it, his voice hard.

Once House was locked inside the clerk whistled at him to get his attention. "Give me your leash and strip off. Leave your underwear and socks on." He looked at Wilson. "Unless you want them off as well, sir?

"Um, no, that won't be necessary," Wilson said, blushing. The clerk gave him a curious look and then turned back to House.

"Hurry up, slave. Your Master doesn't have all day."

House unclipped the leash and handed it back through the bars and then awkwardly stripped off in the narrow space. He did it without any of the smart comments or arguing that Wilson would have expected. Wilson averted his eyes from the sight of his friend standing in a store in a cage, clad only in boxers and socks. His scar could be seen clearly.

"That's a good boy. Now behave yourself while I help your master find some clothes for you." The clerk was no more than twenty, and hearing him talk in such a manner to House made Wilson's blood boil but he had no choice but to turn away and allow the clerk to help him pick out some clothes.

He picked out some dark blue jeans and some black ones, some t-shirts that had the sort of designs that House used to favour. Then some button down shirts and some socks and underwear. It felt weird picking clothes out for House, like he was a dress up doll that Wilson owned. The clerk took them back in turn and had House try every piece of clothing on.

"Stand up straight. Master wants to see you looking good in these nice clothes." He stepped back and surveyed House from top to bottom. "Yes, that looks a lot better, don't you agree, sir?"

"Yes, he looks good. I'll take all those. Leave him a pair of jeans and a t-shirt to wear now." Wilson looked apologetically at House, hating to have to talk about him this way but House was staring off into the distance.

Once the clothes were packed up and paid for the clerk unlocked the cage door and let House out. He handed the bags to House to carry.

"Now, say thank you to your kind master for buying all these clothes for you," the clerk ordered. "Not many slaves get to wear such nice things."

House knelt at Wilson's feet.

"Thank you, sir. This slave is very grateful for your generosity."

Wilson couldn't choke out an answer; he just nodded and took hold of the leash. House rose to his feet and they left the shop.

"Pick the sneakers you like House" said Wilson when they walked inside a sports shop. Thankfully this one didn't have a cage in it. Instead it had a hitching post that a slave could be tied to.

"It doesn't matter, Wilson. It´s not like they have to coo-ordinate with my collar." House kept his voice down so they wouldn't attract attention.

"Just...pick a pair," ordered Wilson. He was tired of this. He just wanted to get out of there, away from all these people who treated House like dirt. House quickly picked out a pair of Nike running shoes. They were black with red details. Running shoes were useless for him, he couldn't run because he was a cripple, he couldn't run because he was a slave. Even if he could run where would he run to? At least he could imagine with this shoes. Imagine what it would be like to be free, and to be able to run.

"Thank you, Wilson," House said sincerely when they were back in the car. He meant it. The kindness Wilson had shown him in buying these clothes and shoes for him was more than anyone had shown him in three years.

"You are very welcome, House." Wilson smiled softly and then, after a nod of approval from his friend, he dropped the black hood over his head - sending him back into darkness.

* * *

**Three Years Earlier**

"Well Mr Greene, the treatment is working as expected. If you look at the scans..." Wilson said with a smile to his nervous patient. Then he was interrupted by the arrival of House, who entered the room without knocking and threw himself down on Wilson's office couch.

"Excuse me Mr Greene." Wilson smiled again and then turned towards House. "With a patient, House."

"Oh, don't mind me. I'm sure you can give him the 'you're dying' speech while I'm here." House stretched his legs out onto the coffee table.

"He's not dying," Wilson said through gritted teeth. "He's doing very well with chemotherapy."

House gawked at his patient. "Oh, well I guess you have to win one every now and then."

"I _am_ here," Mr Greene said, raising his hand slightly.

"Okay, well if he's fine you can buy me lunch." House said.

"House..." Wilson said, throwing his hands up.

"Doctor Wilson, it's okay. If your... friend, needs you more than I do I'll be going. I think you were almost finished anyway?"

"Mr Green, I..."

"The friend who recommended you to me said that you had a little problem," his patient eyed House, "that was part of the whole deal. As long as the scans keep looking good I'll keep coming."

Wilson glared at House again but he'd pulled his Gameboy out and was busy playing with it. His patient was already halfway to the door and Wilson gave up.

"I'll see you next week, Mr Greene."

Once the door was shut behind him Wilson stalked over and grabbed the Gameboy.

"Hey, I was playing that!"

"And I was with a patient!" Wilson put the Gameboy into his labcoat pocket. "You need to stop doing this, House."

"Lunch?"

Wilson sighed. "Lunch."

While they were eating lunch in the hospital's cafeteria Wilson wondered why House had pulled that stunt. He was always obnoxious and demanding but didn't often interrupt when Wilson had a patient in his office. Something must be bothering him, and being House he couldn't just approach him like a normal human being to talk about it. Wilson knew that Diagnostics current patient was a young boy. House was always drawn to his patients when they were children. He treated them as rudely as he did anyone else, but the children all seemed to get on well with him. Maybe the case was going badly.

While they were eating a man walked into the room, a slave walking behind him. The man grabbed a hamburger and some fries and made his way to a table and sat down. The slave stood next to his chair until the man made a hand signal and then the slave knelt beside him, his head bowed and his hands behind his back. The slave was thin, too thin for his height. He was young, about nineteen Wilson guessed.

House was staring at the pair, his food forgotten on his plate.

"House?" There was no response and Wilson tried again. "House!"

House looked at him. "What?"

"Are you okay? Is that slave... upsetting you?"

"Why would seeing a slave 'upset' me?" House said, turning his gaze away and fiddling with his cane.

"You seemed a little..."

"I was thinking about my patient." House said and stood up. "I've got to go. You can have my fries."

He quickly walked off; taking a direction that led him away from the man and his slave.

"Okay, that wasn't weird at all," Wilson said to himself. He glanced back at the slave. The man was hand feeding him the scraps of his burger, making the slave beg for every bite. Wilson grimaced. Slaves were slaves, but there was no need to make a spectacle out of them.

He quickly finished his own meal and went back to work, putting the mystery of what the hell was up with House on the back burner.


	7. Chapter 7

**Present day**

Wilson drove them both back to his apartment, his mind churning over with the events of the last few days, and plans for the future. He was beginning to realise just what being House's 'owner' entailed. It was difficult enough while he was off work, but once he went back - in a few days time - what the hell was he going to do with House? He wasn't going to leave him chained up on a bed all day that's for sure. Every glimpse in the rear view mirror at the hooded, silent, figure set his stomach churning. Despite the occasional glimpses of the 'old House' it was apparent that his friend had been deeply hurt over the last two years of his slavery. Wilson didn't know how he could begin to help him heal while House still had to endure another five years of being treated like something less than human. The scene in the clothing shop was burned into his memory - how many similar scenes, and much worse, were in House's nightmares?

He was so wrapped up in his frustration and anger that he didn't notice the police car behind him until the sirens were blaring at him. He glanced down and realised he'd been speeding. Cursing himself, he pulled over. This was the last thing either of them needed.

"Sorry, House. Cops. I was speeding." It felt strange talking to a hooded figure in the back of the car and he wasn't surprised when he didn't receive an answer.

The police officer approached at an easy pace, his ticket book already coming out. Then he glanced in the rear of the car and stiffened. He stopped and with one hand on the butt of his gun he called out to Wilson.

"Get out of the car, driver. Hands where I can see them."

Puzzled, Wilson did so and the officer eyed him suspiciously.

"That your slave?"

"Yes."

"Show me his papers."

"I haven't got them with me." Wilson had filed them away carefully in his home office.

"How long have you had him? You need to carry his papers at all times."

"I just bought him a couple of days ago. Sorry officer, he's my first slave - I didn't know I was supposed to carry his papers. Is there a problem?"

"He's not secured properly. Should be in a harness. He can just reach around and get himself out of that seatbelt. Don't want him throwing himself out of the car. Slaves are fucking stupid; you never know what they're going to do. I'll need to check him out. Get him out here. Leave his hood on."

Wilson wanted to argue - the last thing he wanted to do was expose House to any more public scrutiny - but the officer was still standing with his hand on the butt of his gun. So he opened the back door of the car.

Leaning over House he released the seat belt.

"House, the officer wants to see you. I'm sorry. You need to get out. Just stay calm okay? I'm sure we can sort this out. I won't let anything happen to you." They both knew that the last was an empty promise.

House's reply was muffled through the hood but audible. "Easy for you to say."

"I'm sorry," Wilson repeated.

"Sorry doesn't help me."

With House unable to see Wilson had to help him out of the car, making sure he ducked his head so he didn't hit it on the frame.

"Move away from the slave, sir. Slave, you stand very still." The officer barked at them and Wilson reluctantly backed off a few steps.

Once he was clear the officer stepped up, kicking at House's leg.

"Kneel down, slave. Hands behind your head."

House dropped to his knees and put his hands behind his head, the hood still in place. Wilson could see he was trembling but otherwise he held still. The officer yanked on his collar, feeling for the tag. He scanned it with his hand-held device and then told House to lie face down on the ground, arms and legs spread-eagled. House instantly complied, his face lying against the rough surface of the pavement.

The officer patted House down, pulling his shirt up and feeling inside his waistband, checking the front and rear of his pants and running his hands through House's hair. Then leaving him there like that he went back to his car and ran the tag against the slave ownership records.

He returned to Wilson.

"The slave checks out. There's a flag on his file from the SAC. Apparently you've already got a warning for improper restraint. I'll need to take him back to the station until you get your shit together. You can pick him up tomorrow after you've bought the harness and the other stuff. Get on your feet, slave!" he called out to House and House staggered to his feet, looking blindly around.

"Is that necessary? I can take him and get the harness immediately," Wilson protested.

"Yes, sir. It is. Regulations." The officer said, stepping forward to grab House's arm. With a tight grip he led him to the patrol van and opened the back door. There was a cage in one corner and to Wilson's dismay he shoved House into it. He had to curl up tightly to fit. The officer slammed the door shut and locked it. He rapped on the cage with his knuckles.

"You stay nice and quiet, slave. Otherwise you can spend the night in there."

He slammed the door closed and faced Wilson.

"There, that's how you restrain a slave. You can't pussyfoot around with them. You have to speak a language they understand." He tore the ticket off his book. "Here's your speeding ticket. You can pick your property up tomorrow from the station once we inspect your harness."

"You can't just take him!" Wilson protested again, cringing at the image of House crammed into a tiny cage. He must be terrified. "He's mine. I own him." The words were ashen in his mouth, but it was better to assert his possession of House than to let him be taken away.

"He's still yours. I'm just borrowing him for the night," the officer grinned unpleasantly. "Goodbye, Doctor Wilson. Have a nice day."

* * *

Officer Carter arrived back at the precinct and opened the cage. The slave was curled into the small space and he struck out at the nearest limb with his baton.

"Out you get."

The slave was awkward, as he couldn't see with the hood on and also appeared to be lame. Carter ended up almost dragging him out and dumping him on the ground at the back of the van.

"Get up," he ordered, giving the slave another strike with the baton to get him moving. The slave staggered to his feet - why the hell would someone buy a slave this useless? - and stood waiting, his head bowed.

He was about to take the slave to the kennels, where they kept any slaves they had taken into custody, when he was stopped by an older officer.

"What have you got there?"

"Picked him up on the road. SAC have a flag on him - think his new owner is being soft on him. The owner didn't have a harness for him so I brought the slave in. That should put a rocket up his owner."

"Take his hood off, I want to see him."

Carter grabbed the hood and took it off the slave's head. The slave blinked in the sudden sunlight and then stared at Carter's colleague. His eyes went wide with fear.

Michael Tritter grinned. This was going to be fun.

"Well, well, Greg House. Should have known that a piece of dirt like you would end up as a slave. And I bet your new 'owner' is Wilson isn't it? Still picking up the pieces after your sorry ass." He stepped closer to House and lifted his chin with his baton. "Well, _slave_, this time you've done something that Wilson and that bitch Cuddy can't fix for you."

He stepped back and eyed House.

"Get down, slave! On all fours, just like the dog you are." He snapped - knowing that House's ingrained slave reflexes would kick in and he would obey.

House dropped to all fours. He was trembling in a way that made Tritter grin in anticipation.

"I'll take him to the kennels," he said, taking the leash from Carter and clipping it on House's collar. He caressed the slave's stubbly head. "What a good boy you are. We're going to have a great time aren't we? Just you and me."

"You can't touch me, I'm tagged," House said, his voice breaking. Tritter slapped his face hard, rocking his head back.

"Shut up, slave. If I want you to talk to me I'll tell you. Wilson may have a tag on you but the SAC also have an eye on you. All I need to do is tell them what a 'special' relationship you boys have and they'll take you off him and put you back to auction. So if you know what's good for you you'll keep that fucking big mouth of yours shut, until I tell you to open it nice and wide for me."

He tugged on the lead. "Come on, slave. We're going to the kennels." House had no choice but to crawl after him on hands and knees.

The pain in his leg was excruciating by the time they reached the kennels. It had been hours since his last Vicodin, and he knew there was no hope of one until tomorrow morning at the earliest. His leg was cramped from being in the cage, and the crawling was adding its own agony.

On the way to the outside kennels House had to crawl past some holding cells for free people. Drunks, or junkies, spending their night in jail. As he crawled past they hurled insults at him, jeering at the slave who was so much less than they were. They had a proper cell to spend the night; he was going to be locked in a dirty kennel. The same sort of kennel as a police dog might occupy - although theirs would probably be cleaner.

The kennel was completely devoid of furniture, or anything else. There was no bunk, or toilet in the corner. No blankets, nothing. One small round container on the floor held some dirty water as a minimum concession to human needs.

Tritter led him to the middle of the concrete floor.

"Kneel," he commanded and House did so. He spread his knees widely, clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head in the correct fashion.

Tritter walked behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You're shaking. Are you scared?"

House didn't answer. There was nothing he could say. Tritter trailed a hand around the back of his neck, and then pressed lightly on the nerves there.

"I asked you a question. Are you scared?"

"Yes," House whispered. It was the truth anyway. When Tritter had been investigating him - back in that other life, over three years ago - he had taunted House with the possibility that he'd be imprisoned and then enslaved. He had promised him that if that happened Tritter would take his revenge for the stunt with the thermometer. House had escaped then, but now he was trapped. Tritter could do whatever he liked to him.

"Good. You should be." He pressed a bit harder on the nerves and then let go. He patted at House's shoulder instead.

"Those are nice clothes for a slave. New too. Did Wilson buy them for you?"

"Yes." There was no point denying Wilson was his owner. It was a matter of record now.

"Take them off. All of them."

House hesitated. The clothes provided little protection but at least they let him retain a shred of dignity. He didn't want to lose them.

Tritter came around to the front and knelt in front of him, his face close.

"You don't want me to do it for you do you? I'd have to use a knife to cut those fine clothes off, and you might lose something of importance." Tritter placed a hand on House's groin, squeezing his balls through the fabric. House tried to squirm away but Tritter held him in place. "Let's get one thing straight here. You're a slave. That means you do what I say, when I say it." He released his hold. "Now, take those clothes off."

House reluctantly took off his new clothes, item by item. He handed them to Tritter who dumped them outside the kennel on the muddy ground. Then House knelt back into position.

Tritter took a step back and scrutinised him.

"You've lost weight."

"A slave diet will do that for you," House shot back without thinking. "You should try it."

Tritter put one booted foot out and pressed down hard on House's right thigh. The kneeling position had exposed the scar and Tritter's foot found the heart of it. House gasped as the pain shot up his spine.

"Maybe you," Tritter leaned in harder and the pain doubled, "should keep your mouth shut."

Keeping his foot in place he unclipped the leash from House's collar. Only then did he move his foot. House gasped and slumped down.

"You've lost weight," Tritter repeated, almost conversationally. This time House knew the correct response.

"Yes, sir."

Tritter patted him on the head. "Good boy. See, you can be a good little slave can't you? All you need is a little discipline."

He left House kneeling there and left the kennel, locking the heavy steel door behind him. He looked back in through the bars.

"Don't worry - I won't be gone long. I just have some preparations to make. Make yourself comfortable. We'll talk more later." He said, his cold expression never changing. He toed the clothes lying on the ground. "Nice clothes. Too nice for scum like you."

As House watched from his kneeling position Tritter unzipped his fly and pissed all over the clothes and shoes Wilson had bought for him. Then he zipped himself back up and walked off without another glance.

House went to the back of the cage, as far away from the door as he could get. He wrapped his arms around his body and huddled there, waiting for the waves of pain still surging through his leg to subside. He wouldn't give in to this - he was a man, not a dog, not a piece of furniture. Tritter could abuse him, but he could never break him. He only had to survive this night and Wilson would come and get him. He just had to hold on.

**Three Years Earlier**

He was alone in his office. His young patient, Timothy, was stable for the moment and the fellows had all gone home to grab some sleep. It was dark outside, well into the evening, and the hospital was quiet. He should have left for the night as well, but somehow he was still sitting here, alone.

He startled as he heard the soft sound of a throat being cleared and looked up to see a slave standing hesitantly in his doorway.

"I told you before not to sneak up on me," he said and the slave seemed to shrink in on himself.

"This slave is sorry, sir..." he bowed his head.

House sighed. "I also told you not to bother with that crap around me. Just come in and do whatever it is you need to do so you won't be tossed into a cage, or whipped, or whatever it is they do to you."

The slave's eyes went wide and House wondered if the cage wasn't closer to this slave's reality than he'd realised.

He'd first noticed the slave a few months ago when he'd been at the hospital late. He'd startled him by coming back to his office while the slave was cleaning it. The slave had looked half starved, beaten, and over-worked. His clothes hung off him. House had just stolen some food from the fridge in the Oncology department and he saw the way the slave's eyes fixated on it. He'd made a show of throwing half a sandwich in the trash and left the office. When he came back the trash had been cleared out and the sandwich was gone. Maybe the slave had eaten it, maybe he hadn't, but since then House had generally left some treat or other in the trash for the slave who cleaned his office to find.

The slave hesitantly entered his office and made for the trash can. There was no food in there; House had been too preoccupied with the case to think of food for himself, let alone a slave. The slave didn't even look inside; instead he just grabbed it and made for the door. House could see that there was a cart parked outside, with a larger bin. The slave emptied the trash can into it and then came back with it.

"What's your name?" House asked abruptly.

The slave froze in the act of putting the can down and House sighed.

"I'm not going to bite you, just tell me your name. You do have one don't you?"

"Dave, sir. My name is Dave."

"Were you born a slave?"

Dave bit his lip, looked around and then finally shook his head.

"No, sir. I used to be free. A long time ago."

"What happened?"

Dave looked at the ground, his body starting to tremble. He said nothing. House was on the verge of telling him to forget it and go back to work when Dave answered him.

"I made a mistake, sir. And this happened to me."

House raised an eyebrow. "Must have been a helluva mistake."

"It was, sir. The biggest mistake of my life, sir. I regret it every day."

House didn't know what to say to that. His father had a saying that he liked to berate his only son with - 'mistakes live forever'. Looking at Dave, and at the collar around his neck, House knew that was true. He sat silently while Dave finished his work and then the slave left his office with only a quick bob of his head as acknowledgement.

He should go home. Staying here wasn't helping the kid, and it wouldn't change the past.

He moved to his Eames chair and stretched out. He should go home. But he needed to be here.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N - Flashback scene in this chapter was written by nickyhehippi**

**Readers are reminded of the warnings at beginning of the story.**

* * *

**Present day**

Tritter returned hours later, carrying two paper bags and a folding chair. He entered the kennel cage and put the chair down in the middle of the floor. He sat down and opened one bag, the other was left on the floor.

House ignored him; he was wrapped up in his pain. His hand worked away at the dead muscle in his leg. He was long overdue for his meds and his body was exhibiting symptoms of withdrawal. Tritter unwrapped a hamburger and some fries and proceeded to slowly eat both. House wanted to puke from the pain, but the sight of the burger made him salivate. Tritter held the burger out towards him, but he knew better than to take it. He closed his eyes.

A slap rocked his face. "Open your eyes, slave." Tritter said in a low, dangerous, voice and House's eyes opened again. A trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth but he made no move to wipe it away.

"Keep them open, or I'll find something to make sure you do." He sat back and ate some more of his burger. "You hungry, slave?" he asked after taking another large bite, bits of food still in his mouth.

"No."

"Sorry, I didn't hear you. You are not what?"

"I am not hungry... sir," House said, each word bitten out, contempt in his voice.

"Well, that's a shame. Because regulations say you gotta eat. Here, have some food." Tritter picked up the second bag and emptied the contents on the dirty floor. It was slave chow. He kicked at it to spread it around.

"Sorry, I'm not hungry," House said again. It was false bravado. He was a slave; defiance could only ever be temporary.

"E.A.T," Tritter said, emphasizing each letter. "Crawl over here and eat the delicious slave chow. Every bit of it."

House stared at him, every fibre of his body protesting but then he went to his hands and knees and crawled over to the nearest clump of slave chow. He went to pick it up and had his hand kicked away. "No hands. Eat it like the good little dog you are."

House bent his head down and began to pick it up in his mouth, trying to avoid the worst of the mud and dirt on the ground. Tritter started caressing his head, patting it as he would a dogs. "That's the way, good boy, good boy. Who could have imagined that the rabid animal I met at the clinic would become such a docile little pet? No smart remarks now, _Doctor House_?"

His hand moved lower, coming to rest on House's balls which he held loosely. House kept eating, trying to avoid showing a reaction to the touch. He knew worse was to come.

"You have no idea how much I am going to enjoy fucking your ass. I don't have a thermometer to put up there, but I think this will work just fine." He thrust his crotch into House's face.

House shuddered involuntarily and Tritter laughed. He squeezed House's balls tightly before releasing them and giving him another pat on the head.

"I need to piss. You keep on eating your food. I wouldn't want you to waste any of it." Tritter walked towards the round container in the corner with House's drinking water in it. House could see him out of the corner of his eye, and he could hear the splash as Tritter's urine hit the surface of the water. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Then he went back to eating each last chunk of slave chow. Tritter kept him at it until it was all gone; mashing the last few pieces under his boot before letting House eat them. The last one he held in his hand and fed to House.

"Good boy. Now, after all that food you must be thirsty. Go and have a nice long drink of your water."

"Please… Please, I can't." House hated to beg but he couldn't, he just couldn't.

"Be a good boy, you're doing really well. I think you learned a lot with the SAC - pity it couldn't have happened earlier. Pup like you needed to learn some good manners a long time ago. A shame your father didn't teach you - you might not have ended up here."

"Please, sir... I can't..." His stomach was churning from the pain and the slave chow he'd just eaten. He couldn't drink that filthy water.

"Oh, I think you can," Tritter said in a steel cold voice. He grabbed House's collar and dragged him across the floor of the cage to the water container. "Drink that or I'll hold you down and pour it down your throat." He pushed House's head down until his nose touched the water. House could smell the putrid water. Tritter's grip on him tightened and he reluctantly began to lap the water. He immediately started gagging at the taste of the hot piss mixed with the dirty water.

"No puking or you'll be lapping that up as well." Thankfully he let go of House's head and allowed him to pull up from the water before he could become sick. "Okay, dinner time's over. I have to get back to work. I'll come back later. Don't mess the floor or I'll make you clean it with your tongue."

House collapsed on the ground as Tritter left the cage and locked it behind himself. Once Tritter was out of sight he started sobbing, from the pain and the fear, and the disgust at himself. Nothing remained of the man who had defied Tritter three years ago. He was broken now, when Tritter hadn't been able to break him then.

* * *

The slave lay curled in a ball in one corner of the kennel. He felt wretchedly sick, he was shaking and sweating and his body was trembling. The kennel was dark, and putrid, and the floor was cold concrete.

When the man came back the slave was almost glad to see him, at least he hadn't been left in this hole to die. The man told him to get on all fours and he did, straining to keep perfect form despite his leg trembling and his body shaking. He felt cold rough fingers pressing into his asshole, and something greasy and slippery being pushed into him. The man laughed as he squirmed.

"I could be fucking you dry but you might bleed and but we don't want any inconvenient questions do we?" The man said. "Now spread those knees a bit wider, boy."

He moved his knees apart and felt a heavy weight on his back as he was mounted. Something thick and heavy penetrated him and he whimpered in pain. His buttocks were slapped, a stinging sound that echoed around the kennel, then again, and again. The man laughed and began thrusting, sending the slave forward with every movement, his body impaled by the man's cock.

"How does that feel, _Doctor_ House? How many men have had you since they put that collar on your neck? How many times have you sucked cock? Maybe I should have got you to do that for me. I bet your mouth is used to having a dick stuffed down it by now. Maybe another time, eh slut?"

A rough hand came around and grasped the slave's cock, squeezing it painfully.

"What about that nancy boy, Wilson? Is he fucking you every night? I could tell that's what he wanted to do - that and that bitch who ran the hospital. Maybe they're going to share you between them now." The man thrust again and the slave felt hot fluid pumping into him. The man withdrew then, pulling his cock out roughly causing the slave to scream in pain and collapse onto the ground. He started crying again and received another slap.

"Shut your mouth, slave. We don't want anyone to come find you like this do we? Get back up on your hands and knees, boy. I've got a present for you."

The slave did, holding still as he felt something hard and unyielding shoved into his tender passage. The man put a belt around his waist and locked it. The object inside him was held fast.

"There, now you'll know what it's like to have something shoved up your ass and left there. Of course it's a bit bigger than a thermometer but seeing as you're nothing but a slutty fuck toy now I think you can take it." The man gave a thrust to the dildo inside him and the slave cried out.

"Now, I want to make sure you have a night you'll remember for a long time." The man took a chain and ran it between the harness around his waist, the slave's collar and the iron bars at the front of the kennel. He hastened it high up and with no slack, so the slave couldn't lie on the ground. He was held on his hands and knees.

The man looked down at him with cold eyes, a sadistic smile on his face.

"Oh, one last thing,_ Doctor House_, a little favour for me. I've enjoyed playing with you so much that I would like it to continue. You will come to my house at night, once a week to start with, maybe more later. You will dress as a person, even though you are no longer one, use a scarf or rolltop to conceal your lovely collar. I will pick you up near Wilson's apartment. Next Thursday, eight o'clock for our first appointment I think. You will not tell Wilson anything about this. Do you understand?"

The slave looked up at him, his mind confused. The man snarled and hit him again across the face.

" .understand?" The man asked again and this time the slave answered yes, because he was a slave and that was the only answer he could give.

The man looked pleased, "Good boy, well done. I'm looking forward to it. Now, I'm going home to bed. I've stayed far too long tonight just to enjoy you." He wrinkled his nose. "This place really is putrid. Maybe a nice bath will do you good." He went over to the dirty water and poured it over the slave's head. Then he went to the faucet outside and refilled it, leaving it just out of the slave's reach.

"Good night, _doctor_, don't go anywhere will you?" He laughed and dropped a heavy black hood over the slave's head, leaving him in darkness. "Sleep tight. And don't forget, you say a word about this and you're gone. Back to the SAC. No more Wilson."

The man left and the slave heard the steel door lock behind him. His head was held high by the chain, and the dildo in his ass stabbed him with every movement. He managed to stagger to his feet to relieve the pressure on his neck but he could only cling miserably to the bars for the rest of the night waiting for daylight to come and his owner to fetch him - if he ever decided to.

**Three Years Earlier**

The scans on their young patient, Timothy, showed what House had known they would. He had at least two fractures that hadn't been treated in a hospital.

"We need to report this to child services," Cameron said, her eyes on the scans. "That's not from a fall - he's been abused." She gathered up the child's chart and the scans and started for the door.

"Is that going to help diagnose him?"

"What diagnosis? The kid's being abused." Cameron said impatiently.

"Oh, and that's causing all his other symptoms? Cool. Make sure you write a paper - but don't let anyone steal it this time." The last was added in a stage whisper with a pointed look at Foreman who rolled his eyes.

"House is right. We have evidence of past abuse - we have no evidence that his current condition has anything to do with abuse."

"We have to report this." Cameron insisted.

"We will. Once we've diagnosed him." House stood up and went to the whiteboard.

Cameron hesitated at the door to the conference room and then came and sat back down.

"Unclench," House said. "Helps the brain work better if it's getting some blood - and gets this kid diagnosed quicker and away from Daddy dearest."

"We don't know it's the father who abused him," Foreman pointed out. "Could be his mother, or some friend of the family."

"It's the father," House said flatly. He could still remember the fear in young Timothy's eyes when he looked at his father. He knew that fear.

After the fellows had gone off to run more tests House tapped his cane on the floor as he spun in his office chair slowly. This case was bringing back old memories. Memories he'd done his best to bury all his adult life. He closed his eyes trying to calm his breathing, trying to erase the flow of images that were racing through his mind.

* * *

_It was the darkest night he'd ever seen. He wasn't sure if he should be scared or relieved as he sat in the woods alone. He was only wearing a thin long shirt, and a worn pair of jeans. A chain around his ankle was attached to the trunk of the tree he was sitting against. _

_He shivered as a cold breeze of late Fall air hit him and howled through the tall trees. He cradled his bad arm close to his body. There were sounds all around him of leaves moving with the wind and creatures of the night skittering around unseen but he was used to that and in an odd way it was calming. _

_He licked his lips, tasting dried blood and dirt, and began to think about sleep. He would usually dig a hole with his hands into the earth to sleep in but the pain in his arm made that impossible. Maybe he could make a bed out of the fallen leaves. Then he heard the birds flying out of the trees half a mile to the north and his heart stopped as he listened for the sounds he didn't want to hear. _

_He began to tremble as he heard the crunch of boots on leaves. Tears came to his eyes as the footsteps came closer but there was nothing he could do. He couldn't run or hide and yet he couldn't take any more pain, not tonight. He just wanted to be left alone. It wasn't long before he saw the flashlights and realized there were two men. He wiped his eyes quickly knowing that being found crying would only make things worse and scrambled to his feet._

_"How did it happen?"_

_"The idiot fell out of one of the tall oak trees that I'd told him not to climb. The boy doesn't have any sense, but he's going to learn his lesson one way or the other." John's harsh voice responded._

_The other man glanced at his father with concern, "Maybe he should be in the house tonight, he looks like he's had enough."_

_"He'll never learn anything if I reward him for his mistakes. No, he'll stay out here tonight with the animals he acts like." His father shone the flashlight directly into his face so that he was half blinded._

_The other man walked up to Greg._

_"Let me see your arm." When Greg hesitantly held it out the man probed it gently. "So, you fell out of a tree?"_

_"Yes, sir," he answered in a hoarse whisper._

_The man shone the light over Greg's body, revealing the usual mottled bruises that decorated his arms and legs. "Looks like you hit a few branches on the way down."_

_His father smiled at Greg. "I guess he must have done. You've always been clumsy haven't you, Greg?"_

_"Yes, sir," he said again. The man looked from him to his father and then shrugged. _

_"Okay, then. His arm is fractured, John. You really should get him to a hospital. It's going to hurt like hell if I set it here."_

_Greg trembled from the pain and fear. He knew he wasn't going to a hospital._

_"No, fix it here. Greg is tough, aren't you boy?"_

_"Y..yes, sir."_

_It hurt worse than he thought it would. As his arm was pulled he couldn't help but let out a small cry of pain, and then a whimper when the bone was pushed back into place._

_The man let out a sigh of relief. "Okay, Greg. It's over, I set it. Now I'll just need to make a splint."_

_"I've got it," John said grabbing up a two inch thick branch that was fairly straight and breaking it with his bare hands._

_The loud crack startled him, it sounded just like his arm had when his father had broken it. The man gave him another look and then took the pieces and some gauze out of his bag and made a splint._

_"Okay, that will do. Don't sleep on it, okay Greg?" The man stood back, putting stuff away. He didn't seem to want to look Greg in the eye._

_"I'll meet you back at the truck, I need to talk to Greg a bit," John said. Again the man hesitated but then walked off. When he was out of earshot John grabbed Greg's good arm._

_"I've taught you better than that. Moaning in pain like you're some goddamned whore slave. Next time I catch you talking to one of those filthy creatures I won't bother with teaching you a lesson. I'll take you up to the auction myself. Then you'll find out what pain is all about." He let go of his arm and then punched him in the stomach. Greg collapsed on the ground and felt a boot connect with his hip._

_"Remember boy, not a word to anyone." He walked away without looking back. Greg curled up on the leaves and cried himself to sleep. _


	9. Chapter 9

**Present day**

Officer Jones had been given the job of checking on any slaves that were in the kennels each morning. He was young, and was paid to keep his mouth shut about anything he found there. Some of the officers liked to have a little fun with any slaves that were brought in. There was no harm in it but no need to publicise it either. Jones was discreet.

Although he was accustomed to finding slaves a little bit worse for wear he was still shocked at the state of the slave in the only occupied kennel. The slave was almost hanging from the bars with a chain wrapped around his collar. He appeared to be only semi-conscious, his body making small twitching movements. He was butt naked which wasn't unusual but the harness and dildo fastened around his waist were. This one must have really pissed someone off.

Jones donned some rubber gloves and went into the kennel. He made short work of unfastening the slave, and removed the dildo with a quick yank which brought a soft moan of pain to the slave's lips and an effort to scuttle away. Jones held him in place by his collar while he looked him over. The slave was old - well past his prime. His leg was disfigured by an ugly scar. Hardly a prize catch. He shook his head. Well, someone had enjoyed him last night anyway. He'd seen that bastard Tritter hanging around down here yesterday - he was well known for fucking anyone who couldn't move away fast enough.

He let him go of the collar and the slave collapsed by his feet, his body shaking. He made a pathetic effort to try and pull himself into the proper kneeling position but couldn't manage it. His lips were dry and cracked and his mouth parted as he tried to say something.

Jones looked around for the water bowl and saw that it had been placed out of the slave´s reach so he picked it up and shoved it under his nose.

"Drink that."

The slave obediently lapped at it weakly with his tongue. Jones waited patiently until he'd nearly drunk the entire bowl.

"Thank you, sir," the slave managed to say in a weak voice.

Jones grunted and snapped a leash on his collar. The slave struggled to his hands and knees which was enough for Jones. He pulled on the leash and unlocked the cage, taking the slave out to the yard. He went the back way out of sight of everyone.

Once in the yard he hitched the slave up to a post with his leash and rinsed him off with the hose the police slaves used to wash the cars. When he was satisfied that he was at least clean on the surface he left him shivering there and went to retrieve the pile of clothes he'd spotted outside the kennel. They were filthy and smelly but the slave would be used to wearing clothes like that. He picked up an old rag off the garage floor and passed it to the slave.

"Dry yourself with that and then put your clothes back on."

The slave took a while to obey but finally he was more or less dry and dressed in his old clothes. He still looked pale and was shaking but that could be explained by a night in a kennel. There were a couple of bruises on his face but again, that wasn't unusual for a slave taken into custody. His owner could hardly complain if his slave was a little worse for wear. Jones didn't know what other damage the slave had taken but at least it didn't show.

He took the slave back to his kennel. The boy didn't want to go back in but a couple of quick strikes with a crop to his thighs got him moving. Jones left him there while he went to get feed for him. When he returned the slave was still kneeling in the same position. He put a bowl of slave chow on the ground.

"Eat that." He watched in disgust as the slave ate messily, his face down in the bowl. He didn't even attempt to use his hands. Slaves really were little better than animals. The slave ate every piece and then knelt up, his body still quivering.

Jones nodded. His job was almost done, then he could get out of this filthy place.

"What happened here last night?" he asked, to check.

The slave stared at him wide eyed for a moment and then his face went blank.

"Nothing this slave didn't deserve, sir." He gave the standard answer. Slaves only became damaged when they deserved it.

"Good. Nothing happened. Remember that. You don't want to have to come back here do you?"

The slave trembled all over. "No, sir. Nothing happened. This slave is sorry, sir. This slave will do better, sir."

Satisfied that all was well Jones locked the cage again and went and reported that the slave was ready for pick up whenever his owner decided to turn up. Hopefully he wouldn't have to spend another night here, taking care of him had taken up a large part of Jones' morning, he didn't have that sort of time to spare again.

* * *

Wilson was at the front desk of the station as soon as he could get there the next day. It hadn't been easy getting all the things that he'd been required to get but he didn't want to leave House here longer than necessary. He didn't like the way the police officer had treated him yesterday.

"Hello, I am Doctor James Wilson, I am here to pick up my slave - Greg," he said to the officer who was in the front desk of the station. It still felt strange to refer to House in that manner. As if he was a piece of lost property.

"Hey, Jones! This man is looking for his slave." The man at the front desk called out to a younger officer who was working in the other room. "Go and fetch him for us. He's the lame one they brought in yesterday."

While Jones was gone Wilson presented his receipts for his purchase of the harness and other equipment and the desk officer gave it a cursory glance over.

"Yeah - that looks good. SAC will be out again to inspect anyway. They have a flag on you two. Guess you must have annoyed them."

When Jones reappeared he had House at the end of a leash. House was limping severely without his cane and to Wilson's professional eyes he looked terrible. Exhausted, in pain, and with a dead look in his eyes. There were a couple of dark bruises on his face and Wilson wondered how many were hidden on his body.

Jones unclipped the leash and gave House a pat on the ass. "Go to your owner and behave yourself or we'll take you back to the kennel."

House bowed his head and answered respectfully. "Yes, sir. I will. Thank you, sir." He shuffled towards Wilson, and then slipped to his knees by Wilson's side, his head down. Wilson was aware of an unpleasant smell coming from him. The fine clothes he'd purchased yesterday were stained and torn. He looked at the desk officer who stared back at him with a bored expression. Protesting the treatment of a slave would be suspicious so Wilson swallowed what he was going to say and looked down at House.

"Get to your feet and let's go. I've wasted enough time on you today." He said harshly, aware of their audience and was surprised when House flinched. Surely he knew it was an act?

Without his cane House had difficulty walking even that small distance. He lurched heavily, his gait even worse than usual. He was shaking and Wilson realised that he hadn't had any Vicodin for almost a day. On top of everything else he was going into withdrawal and probably in agony.

House stopped by the back door of the car. Wilson waited for him to open it but it seemed he wasn't going to. Wilson reached around him and operated the handle, opening the door. House stared in at the harness that had been installed. It was chain and leather and would hold him completely still when he was in the car. There was an attachment where the hood was clipped on. With the harness fastened and the hood draped over his head he would be completely helpless.

"Okay," he said quietly, almost as if to himself.

Wilson didn't like how quiet House was. He was almost like a zombie - like the soul of his friend had gone and only this shell remained. What the hell had happened during that night at the police station?

When House made no move to enter the car Wilson gently asked him if he knew how to put the harness on, or if needed help.

House turned his head and stared at him. His eyes were dead and empty; there wasn't a trace of expression on his face. Then suddenly a change came over him, a spark of something came back. Wilson was puzzled for a moment and then realised what the emotion was - fierce anger. House was furious.

"I may be a piece of crap slave but I know how to put a fucking harness on." He clambered into the car awkwardly and pulled the straps of the harness around him. The fit was tight already but he pulled the straps savagely until not an inch of movement was left to him. "You'll need to lock my hands down."

Wilson swallowed hard and leaned in to place the cuff straps around House's hands and clip them into the rest of the harness. Now he couldn't even move his hands. Then he took out a key and locked the central mechanism. House wouldn't be able to get out of the harness, and therefore out of the car, until Wilson allowed it. One less freedom.

Wilson realised that House's anger wasn't directed at him, or the harness, but at the whole shitty situation. At whatever had happened while he'd been in the keeping of the police.

Anger was at least better than the zombie like detachment he'd been previously presenting.

He tried to connect again. "You look like crap, what happened to your face?" he asked. He fished in the pocket of his pants and took out House's Vicodin. Then he realised that with his hands locked down House couldn't take them.

House's eyes were riveted on Wilson holding the pills. He licked dry lips. "Please... Can I have them..." Then he opened his mouth wide, his eyes pleading with Wilson.

Wilson hadn't meant to make him beg. He flushed and put a pill on House's tongue. House quickly closed his mouth and crunched the bitter pill into pieces. Wilson flinched, House must really be hurting. House was still looking at the pills and Wilson took pity on him and held out another. That one went as quickly as the first.

Wilson put the bottle away. "House, I'm serious - what happened?"

"Nothing. Nothing happened."

"Something must have. You look..."

"Nothing happened, Wilson. Leave it at that. Please. Put my hood on." House turned his head away and Wilson reluctantly dropped the hood over his head.

He drove home in silence.

* * *

After Wilson had parked up he came around to the back door to let House out. The hood was still over his head as he couldn't remove it with the harness holding down his hands. Wilson quickly took it off and then while House sat there in silence he fumbled with getting the key into the central lock on the harness.

When House could finally get out of the car he staggered to his feet and stood in front of the apartment, looking up at it. All the windows were now barred with heavy steel bars.

"They came and fitted them yesterday" Wilson said, almost apologetically. House just nodded and waited for Wilson to walk to the house. When he did so, House followed with the proper distance between them.

Once they were inside Wilson quickly closed the curtains and locked the door and House relaxed slightly. For the moment he had a few minutes to breathe and just be House for a while. Or as much as he could be.

"I made the changes that you suggested. I think we are ready if the SAC come again." Wilson said hopefully. House followed him to his own bedroom and when he entered he could see that the king sized bed had gone, replaced with a much smaller single bed. He was relieved that it still looked comfortable, far more so than any bed he'd slept in for the last three years. A mile away from his accommodations last night.

A set of chains was attached to each corner of the bed, each chain ending in a padded cuff. House swallowed hard, he'd been chained to the bed quite a few times in his training - and his first postings - for discipline. Once he'd been left for two days, tightly chained, gagged and blindfolded. He'd lain in his own waste, with only his pain for company. After two days of that he'd been ready to serve his masters in all the cruel and humiliating ways they'd demanded.

A steel cage sat ominously in a corner of the room, in the space that a dresser and a mirror had previously occupied. The stylish curtains at the window had gone, now only the steel bars could be seen. The room was empty of any other furniture other than a small closet with a padlock on it. House would have to ask Wilson to open it to get any clothes he was allowed out.

The room now looked less like a guest bedroom and more like a slave's quarters - even if it was still large and with its own bathroom.

"I'm sorry I had to change it. I wanted you to be comfortable."

House felt a pang of guilt at his friend's sad expression. All this was far more than Wilson had bargained for. He didn't deserve any of this.

"It's okay, Wilson. This is more... far more, than I've had since I became a slave. It's going to be all right." He lightly rested his hand on his friend's shoulder. Wilson managed a small smile.

"Yeah, we can do this. Do you want me to order Chinese? Celebrate your return home." As if this was something to celebrate.

House shook his head. "No, no more take out. It's too risky. They might be watching."

"You don't think you're being a little paranoid?"

"No," House said flatly. Tritter was out there, and he didn't want to risk this little sanctuary. "I need to have a shower." He had been scrubbed down by the kid at the police station but he felt dirty, violated. He'd almost lost it there at the station; he'd gone so far into the headspace of being a slave that he hadn't been able to get out until he saw Wilson.

Wilson looked at him, his eyes soft, as if he knew why House wanted to have a shower. House hoped he didn't - that he would never know. "Of course. I'll be outside, yell if you need me."

* * *

House left the door to the bathroom and bedroom open, because a slave was owed no privacy. He hoped Wilson would stay away; he didn't want him seeing this.

After getting undressed House looked at himself in the mirror. His waist was ringed with dark bruises where the chains had held him tight the night before, under his collar the skin was the same. Other bruises mottled his body.

His fingers when he probed his asshole came away without blood although there was a lot of soreness there. All in all the damage could have been worse.

In the shower he turned the water up as high as he could, grabbed the soap and began scrubbing.

He knew that everything wasn't going to be okay. He could lie for Wilson's sake and pretend but this moment of peace was only fleeting, and any illusion of safety was just that - an illusion. Tritter was out there - waiting for him. One false move and House would be taken away from here forever.

He scrubbed until his skin turned red but he couldn't remove the memory of Tritter's hands on him. Of the violation of his body, and his will. He couldn't remove the knowledge of what he had become.

**Three Years Earlier**

House stood outside his patient's room and watched the parents with their son. Timothy was very sick. The little boy would be dead in a few hours if they couldn't find out what was killing him.

His mind churned over the symptoms. He knew Timothy had been abused in the past by his father, and he suspected it was ongoing. The kid being sick now could be a coincidence, but all his instincts were telling him that there was a connection.

If his father had caused this than it had to be some sort of poison. They'd tested for a whole array of heavy metals and they had all come back negative. What the hell was the father feeding to his son?

"Doctor House, can I help you?" He looked up to see that the impatient voice belonged to a nurse. "You're blocking the corridor."

He was about to launch a verbal attack on the woman when his attention was caught by a shiny gold band on her finger. The nurse followed his gaze.

"Got married last Sunday," she said proudly.

"Congratulations. Send me a card for the divorce." He barely registered the nurse's sound of annoyance. Gold. One metal they hadn't thought to test for.

Memories came to the surface. His stay in Egypt when he was ten. His father had been stationed at the marine base there for a few months. They had been in the middle of nowhere and there was nothing to do. Desperate to get out of the house and away from his father's scrutiny he'd taken to exploring - and searching for mummy's tombs. He'd never actually found one, but he'd learned a lot of what his father had called 'useless shit'. Like the fact that stannous chloride turned bright purple when mixed with gold. And he had a vial of that very substance back in his apartment, a long kept souvenir of his time in Egypt.

He hurried to the elevator. He needed to get home and retrieve the chemical. His father hadn't approved of his mummy hunting ways, but he was pretty sure that they were going to help bring Timothy's father down. He almost smiled at the poetic justice of it.

It took him nearly an hour to get home, find the chemical and get back to the hospital on his bike. As he took the elevator up to Timothy's room his mind was working furiously on how best to expose Brad. He needed to get the man just after he'd been handling the gold, and before he washed his hands. He was probably using gold sodium thiomalate, an arthritis remedy that was rarely used in the States but was common in Mexico - where Brad often went on business. A little of that sprinkled on Timothy's cereal and the result was a very sick child in a hospital bed. He didn't know Brad's motivations - maybe he wanted to get rid of his kid, maybe he just liked watching him suffer. It didn't matter, House had known since he was a child that some people were just monsters.

He saw the activity as soon as he got off the elevator. Brad and Claire were outside their son's room. Claire was crying, Brad was just standing there, not even comforting his wife. Several medical staff could be seen in the room but House could see that they weren't clustered around the bed, working frantically over Timothy. As he watched they all began to file out. A sheet had been pulled up over the boy's face. Timothy was dead.

House stood rooted to the spot. He'd had the solution. He'd just been too late, Timothy had been too sick. His father had killed him.

He started moving towards the room. Brad spotted him first.

"Well, if it isn't the famous doctor? Come to see what you've done?" he sneered. "My son is dead."

House went up to him and grabbed one of Brad's hands in his own, holding tight.

"What the fuck are you doing? Let go of my hand." Brad pulled back and got away. House held up his own hand. It was stained purple.

"Proving that you're a murderer."

Brad's face darkened. "You're crazy!"

"You've been feeding the kid sodium thiomalate. The residue is on your hands." Brad looked down at his own hand which was also purple.

"You're just trying to cover up your own incompetence. You said you'd save his life. And you failed. I bet your father would be so proud of you. His useless failure of a screw up kid. You're a pathetic waste of space." Brad pushed him away hard and turned away.

A red mist of anger filled his vision and House didn't even think. He just took his cane and swung it at the man's back. It connected with a thud and drove an anguished sound out of Brad.

House followed the blow up, launching a punch at Brad as he began to turn back. He connected solidly with the man's jaw.

Brad staggered back, shaking his head, and House closed in on him, his fists raining blows. "You bastard! You killed him!"

Brad started fighting back, his own fist catching House a glancing blow. House was peripherally aware of the boy's mother screaming and sounds of running feet. There were people shouting as he wrestled with Brad. He began to stagger under the weight of the other man, and felt fists pummelling his body. Blindly he swung back, before tumbling to the ground.

Brad aimed a kick at his fallen body and House grabbed his ankle, jerking him off balance. He took advantage of the opportunity to feel for his discarded cane. Grabbing it by the handle he swung again and again at the other man.

"House! House!" He heard her before he saw her. Cuddy advancing on them. "Somebody stop them!"

Hands grabbed for him, pulling him away and then holding his arms behind his back. He struggled to free himself but they held him tight.

"House! Stop it!" Cuddy said, moving closer to him. She put a hand on his face and it came away smeared with blood. "That's enough. God, House. What have you done?"

He looked past her to see Brad lying on the ground, groaning. Several hospital staff were bending over him. The floor was stained with blood.

House slumped in the hands of the people holding him. The adrenaline from the fight was draining out of him and he felt exhausted and empty.

"He was poisoning his son, Cuddy. Sodium Thiomalate. Probably picked it up in Mexico."

"House... that's a serious accusation." Cuddy said worriedly. "Can you prove it?"

"Test the blood for gold. You'll find it's off the scale." House didn't have the energy to explain further. He knew Cuddy would cover all the bases.

"We're going to have to call the police, I can't keep this quiet," Cuddy said. House understood. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. His patient was dead.

"Do what you have to do."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N - Medical case taken from the show**

* * *

**Present day**

A couple of days passed without further incident, and then Wilson received a call from the hospital. He had to go in - one of his patients was having a crisis. Wilson was officially on leave for another week but this was a patient he had been treating for years, and Wilson was the only doctor he trusted.

"I'll stay here," House said. "Just chain me to the bed before you go."

"No, I'm not leaving you alone again." Wilson knew that something had happened to House when he was in police custody although House refused to discuss it - saying that it was nothing that hadn't happened before. He was still moving stiffly although better than a couple of days ago - the Vicodin helped with that. "It's too risky. The SAC are due for another visit."

"If I'm chained it will be okay."

Wilson didn't like to think what would happen if the SAC came to the apartment when Wilson wasn't there and they found House chained to the bed. He'd be completely at their mercy – and after their last encounter Wilson didn't trust the SAC. Wilson might pass the inspection but at what cost to House? Besides that he couldn't bring himself to do that to House - to chain him to a bed for hours on end, with no one to free him in case of an emergency.

"No! You'll come with me to the hospital. I am_ not_ chaining you to the fucking bed."

House seemed to shrink in on himself at Wilson's stern tone and he bowed his head. "Yes sir, sorry, sir."

The transition from a seemingly normal House to a cowed slave was something Wilson had seen a few times now, and it never stopped saddening him. Two years of abuse had gone into House being this afraid.

He gentled his tone. "Look, I just don't want anything happening to you while I'm not here."

House didn't say anything, he just nodded mutely and Wilson sighed. He constantly felt like he was in a no-win position with House. He needed to protect both of them, but any time he asserted his 'authority' he felt like he was joining the ranks of the owners - the _masters_ and distancing himself even more from his old friend. In all their years of friendship he'd never felt a need to censor his words around House, it was one of the thing he enjoyed most about the relationship they had - that he didn't have to put on a persona around House. They'd often hurled cruel barbs at each other, and still been able to have a beer at the end of the day. Now he realised that what he said, and even the tone of voice he used,_ did_ impact upon House - whether House wanted it to or not. He didn't know much about how slaves were trained to obey - but from what he had seen so far he realised that House had undergone that training. Some of how he reacted was completely beyond his conscious control. Wilson would have to be very careful around him to avoid triggering that reflex reaction.

"Come on, House. We need to get going. It'll be okay." He said and led his silent friend out of the front door.

In the car he helped House with the harness and then the hood - hating that he had to secure him like that. It all seemed totally unnecessary and just done for the purpose of humiliating the slaves. When he'd said that to House once House had laughed at him. "Of course, slavery is supposed to be punishment, Wilson. The idea is to never miss a chance to remind a slave just what he is."

Now as Wilson looked at him, a black hood covering his head, his body completely immobilised with straps, he knew that there was no chance of a slave forgetting what they were - not even for a moment.

By the time they arrived at the hospital the night shift had started so mercifully the staff parking lot wasn't full but as he led House into the hospital at the end of a leash Wilson began to realise why House had been so desperate not to come here.

They entered the foyer and the nurse at the reception desk looked up. She was a nurse House used to be particularly rude to and her eyes widened when she saw who Wilson had at the end of a leash. Then she smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile.

"You'll have to leave the slave in a Slave Cell, Doctor Wilson." She called out, indicating the cells that lined one wall. They were small, each just had a bench for a slave to sit on and a water bottle affixed to the wall. The fronts were clear so everyone could see the slaves. One was already occupied by a slave.

"Don't be ridiculous. House doesn't need to go in one of those." Wilson protested.

"Staff aren't permitted to have slaves with them in the hospital because they can't properly supervise them while they're working. He needs to be left in a cell. Hospital regulations. No exceptions."

Wilson remembered a memo going around to that effect a year or so ago. He couldn't remember paying much attention to it at the time, or the reasons for the directive.

They were attracting the attention of the night security guard who came forward, a hand on the gun at his waist.

"Is there a problem with this slave?" He looked House over, his lip curling in disgust. "He needs to be put in a cell while you're here." He opened the door of the nearest one and gestured to House. "Get in, slave or I'll put you in myself. Leave the cane with your owner."

House handed his cane over to Wilson and entered the cell, sitting down on the bench facing out into the hospital. The guard shut the door and slid the bolt home.

"He'll be fine here Doctor Wilson. Can't have slaves wandering around the hospital, you know that."

"That 'slave' used to be a Department Head here only three years ago - you know_ that_."

The guard shrugged. "Well, he's not now. Now he's just a piece of trash slave who has to sit in a cell." He swaggered off, taking a stance near the row of cells.

Wilson looked at House in despair but House's head was down as he stared at the ground.

"I'll be back as soon as I can, House. I'll talk to Cuddy when I come back to work about changing the rule for you." There was no answer and after a moment Wilson left, hurrying off to be with his patient. He needed to deal with that situation and then get House the hell out of here.

Once he was gone the nurse, Josie, smiled. This would be good. She called a relief to come over to the desk and approached the cells.

"Look up, slave."

House didn't look up and she frowned. "Look up or I'll get the guard to come over here and make you. He's bored; it will be a bit of fun for him."

House looked up, contempt in his eyes. "Still haven't done anything about that donut habit I see," he drawled, his eyes going to her fairly ample padding.

"And you're still an asshole." Josie said. "Is that a literal asshole, _Doctor House_? I hear that slaves make good fuck toys. Maybe if Wilson brings you here a lot we can put you on a roster. There'll be a lot of people wanting to try that out. Maybe we can do it in front of the clinic to keep the patients entertained."

The memory of Tritter, and what he had done, and threatened, and the fear of what he was going to do flooded through House and he looked down again.

"I said, look up, slave! I have a present for you."

When he looked up again she spat in his face, messily and then again. Spittle ran down his cheek. The guard laughed and Josie smiled. "We're going to enjoy having you here to play with, _Doctor House._"

* * *

It was eight at night when Cuddy returned to the hospital. She'd already left once, but had forgotten some papers she needed to prepare for a fundraising meeting in the morning. They were hoping to raise money for the ER department, the most neglected area of the hospital. They were desperately in need of new equipment and human resources.

When she walked into the building she could immediately see a nurse and two guards gathered in front of the slave cells. She felt a flare of anger. She hated that the slave cells were necessary but it had been worse when staff, and patients, had been allowed to keep their slaves with them. The last straw had come when she'd found that the head of cardiology was using his slave as a reward system for the interns. She'd issued a directive that all slaves were to be kept in the cells while their owners were in the hospital and that the hospital wasn't providing a baby-sitting service for slaves. The few staff members who owned slaves had made other arrangements.

All the staff had also been informed that the slaves in the cells were not to be harassed. That went double for when the staff were supposed to be working. She wouldn't have mistreatment of slaves while she was in charge of the hospital.

She stalked up to the cells, startling the staff who were gathered there. "Don't you all have work to do? You're not paid to harass some poor slave." They quickly scattered, murmuring apologies in their wake.

She glanced into the cell to check on the slave and make sure they hadn't come to harm and then gasped when she realised that the 'poor slave' stuck in the cell was her former department head and one time lover.

"House! What the hell are you doing here?" What had Wilson been thinking, bringing him here?

House was sitting on the hard bench in his cell and rubbing his face on the long sleeve of his jacket. He scowled at her and she got the impression he'd rather that she hadn't seen him.

"Role playing being a slave," he said, the sarcasm forced. "With that black power suit you could be the mistress but next time leather is hotter..."

It was a weak effort, and it broke her heart rather than annoyed her, but she rewarded him with a roll of her eyes. _Act normal_, she told herself,_ that's what he wants. He doesn't want your pity. _

She looked around for the errant security officer. "You, come over here and open up this cell."

"But, Doctor Cuddy, your order was that slaves not working in the hospital have to be kept in the cells," he protested.

"He'll be in my custody. Now do what I asked unless you want to have your ass out of here by end of shift."

He shot her a look but opened the cell door up. "Get out here, slave." He roughly ordered, trying to get back some authority.

"That will be all," Cuddy said and then turned her back on him, watching House make his slow way out of the cell. There was a trace of gratitude in his eyes as he nodded at her.

"Come with me, I need to pick up some papers from the ER," she said briskly.

He followed her - where else would he go? He didn't talk as he had nothing to say. While they made their way through the corridors of the hospital he caught the hostile glances of the staff and patients. He dropped his gaze and stared at the floor as he walked. He didn't think he could fall lower than he had in the last three years, but walking the hospital as a despised slave, when he had once been a world famous diagnostician broke something inside of him that he didn't think was still there.

Once they were in the relative safety of an empty elevator cabin she asked her question again.

"So, what are you doing here?"

"Wilson had some dying patient who needed him to hold their hand. He didn't want me to stay at the apartment alone, after the scene with the SAC the other day. So he decided to do the 'bring your slave to work day' thing."

"I'm sorry that they were giving you a hard time back there. I hope no one hurt you." She asked it half as a question, half looking for reassurance.

He just shrugged. No, they hadn't _hurt_ him. What was a little humiliation, and some saliva in his face, after what Tritter had done to him?

She didn't look satisfied but the elevator doors opening stopped him from having to answer.

Once they were in the ER she went to the office in the corner to get her papers while he lingered outside, his ears catching the various conversations that were going on. The nearest to him was a teenager sitting on a gurney, his parents beside him.

"Night terrors can be explained by post-traumatic stress disorder," the young doctor attending them was explaining to the worried parents. "Have you experienced any trauma in the last few months?" He addressed the boy, who shrugged in typical teenage fashion.

"No, nothing like that," the mother said. Then she thought for a moment. "Oh,he did get hit in the head in a lacrosse game a few days ago."

The doctor nodded and made a note on his clipboard. "That will be it. The symptoms fit with concussion. He'll be okay once he's had chance to heal."

House wasn't so sure. The teenager had been swinging his leg on the gurney and House had seen the kid's leg jerk. There was something wrong, more than some concussion from a lacrosse game.

"It's not concussion!" He approached the small cluster of people. The parents looked up, surprised, and then surprise turned to anger when their eyes focused on the collar around House's neck.

"What the hell? Get away from our son, slave!" The father yelled at him, standing right in front of him, blocking his view of leg jerking kid.

"Something is messing up little junior's brain and this moron," he indicated the doctor, "this moron thinks it's just a concussion. Now, let me have a look at your spawn and I'll tell you what's wrong with him. Besides being sixteen and mute."

He tried to step around the man blocking his way. The man pushed him away and then punched him hard on the chin, and kneed him in the groin on the way down. House went down, drawing himself into a ball of pain on the floor.

"Oh my God!" Cuddy cried, coming out of the office and dropping to her knees next to House.

"Doctor Cuddy? What is happening here? Who is that slave?" The junior doctor asked, his eyes flashing from the still angry father, to the slave on the ground, to his boss.

House groaned and rolled over to a sitting position. His jaw was already sore, and his balls felt crushed. Fuck, he was too old for this shit. With an effort he focused on the kid who still sitting on the gurney, mouth hanging open in shock.

"Are you tired?" He asked the kid.

"What? No, I'm not tired." The kid looked more confused by the minute.

"Then why did your leg twitch?"

"Get the fuck out of here, slave! Before I pick you up and throw you out." The father screamed at him. House looked up at him.

"That leg twitch is what we call a myoclonic jerk. It's very common when you are falling asleep. Your respiration rate falls and your body sometimes interprets this as the body dying so it sends a pulse to wake you up." House used his sleeve to wipe at his face again. This time a smear of blood showed up on the cloth.

"So?" The junior doctor said. "So what?"

"So he's not asleep, he's awake." House said brusquely, his tone clearly indicating that he thought the other doctor was a moron.

The doctor's face reddened and took a step forward, his foot raised - ready to kick the helpless slave.

"Wait!" Cuddy called out, moving to stand in front of House. "Doctor Jacoby he might be right. You are new so you don't know. This slave used to be the head of diagnostics here. This is Doctor House, I'm sure you've heard of him."

Jacoby stared down at the slave sprawled on the floor. Of course he'd heard of Doctor House, who hadn't? The man was infamous. He'd disappeared a few years ago. If this slave was Doctor House…

He realised the parents of the boy were watching on in confusion.

"I... I... he might be right," he admitted. "We'll have to do some tests."

"Admit him," Doctor Cuddy ordered, "Doctor Foreman's team will take over the case tomorrow."

Jacoby nodded and drew the parents away without any further words to the slave. As the teenage boy passed House he muttered a 'thank you'.

Once they were gone Cuddy helped House up off the floor.

"Are you insane? What is your problem? What the fuck did you think you were doing?"

House didn't answer her; he seemed far away, staring after the family. After a few moments she heard him say, 'cool', accompanied with a tiny smile.

"I still got it," he said to Cuddy. For the first time in three years he felt like a doctor again, like someone who had some worth. Even the father and Jacoby yelling at him hadn't made him revert back to a timid grovelling slave. For a few moments he'd been himself again as his professional abilities came surging back.

He wanted to keep on feeling like that. He wanted his puzzles back. He wanted his life back.

* * *

Wilson finished with his patient as fast as he decently could, considering the man was dying. He hated having to leave House locked in a tiny cell in the lobby of the hospital. It had never bothered him overly seeing slaves there before - it had seemed the safest place for them - but now it was his best friend being caged it seemed cruel and inhumane. Everything about slavery seemed designed to humiliate and degrade the slave as much as possible - from the hood and harness in the car, to the metal collars around their necks and the cells they were put in.

He hurried back to the lobby and House's cell but he wasn't there. Panicked, he hurried over to the reception desk and asked if anyone had seen what happened to him. The nurse on duty shrugged.

"Doctor Cuddy took the slave with her. They're in her office I think."

He started to go in that direction and she threw after him. "Better knock before you go in." She smirked. "Everyone always said that Doctor Cuddy was hot for him - now she doesn't even have to ask."

He glared at her but hurried off. Cuddy wouldn't take advantage of Greg's situation, would she?

He entered the office without knocking and instantly saw Greg lying down on the couch, Cuddy was bent over him.

"Cuddy! What are you doing to him?"

She looked up, puzzled. House looked startled for a moment and then leered.

"Did you think she was fucking the poor helpless slave?"

Wilson blushed and Cuddy rounded on him in anger.

"How dare you! Do you think I would?"

"No, no..." he spread his hands. "I just... what are you doing?"

He looked again at House and saw that his face was bruised and his lip split.

"What happened to you?"

"Patient's father hit me, of course." House looked happier than he had since Wilson had bought him. "I still got it."

* * *

It was hard to reconcile the idea of House diagnosing some kid with leading a slave through the parking lot on the end of a leash. Wilson had talked with Cuddy and House about him getting back to work in some capacity. He hadn't seen how it would work until Cuddy proposed the solution.

House would work in the hospital as a janitor every day. As Wilson's personal slave it was his right to put him to work wherever he wanted - the SAC couldn't object to that, and he wouldn't have to leave him chained up in the apartment all day.

For it to work though House would really have to _be_ a janitor for most of the day. Cleaning the floors and toilets, a collar around his neck. The word 'slave' written on the back of his coveralls.

When someone needed a consult they would call him in. It was like the Baraku in House's story about Japan. The janitor from the lowest social caste who was called in when all the other doctors failed. That aspect appealed to House, even if the cleaning didn't.

Of course their plan meant Wilson would have to lead him into the hospital every day on the leash. Wilson felt sick at the thought.

They got to the car and House got in the back. Wilson fastened the chains of the harness around him.

"It won't be easy, House. You have a lot of enemies in the hospital and I can't watch over you all day. "Wilson said sadly.

House swallowed hard. "I know, but what else can I do? I can't sit in that apartment all day - chained up like a dog waiting for you to come home. And this will be a chance for me to work again - as a doctor. When I was diagnosing that kid, I wasn't afraid."

Wilson fingered the black hood.

"I need this, Wilson. It's not going to be easy but you're going to have to treat me like a slave when we're in the hospital. You need to make it look good. You're going to have to do worse things than put a hood on me. I need you to be able to do this." House looked at him intently.

Wilson nodded and took a deep breath, slipping the hood over House's head. "I will House. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe." There was no verbal answer but Wilson could see his body relax somewhat, even with the hood in place.

Wilson drove home, his heart heavy. He'd do whatever it took but it wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to work with House like they had before. Side by side, having lunch in the cafeteria, watching people from the balcony outside their offices. Not like this. Not as owner and slave.

Well, as House would say - you can't always get what you want. At least he had what he _needed_. House back in his life. For better or worse.

**Three Years Earlier**

Wilson came to bail him out in the morning. House stood silently through the paperwork and the ritual handing back of his possessions. Wilson did his usual job of charming everyone in sight. House was sick of the whole thing. The night in jail had been the hell it always was and all he wanted was his Vicodin and enough scotch to get drunk and forget everything.

"You were right about Timothy," Wilson said once they were alone outside. "The heavy metal test showed that gold was off the chart. Of course your stunt with the stannous chloride isn't admissible in court but it's enough to get the police investigating. The scans show evidence of past abuse - which no doubt you knew about."

"None of it matters now, patient's dead."

Wilson shook his head. "It matters if you want to keep your ass out of prison, and your medical license intact. So far you're guilty of not reporting suspected child abuse in a timely manner and serious assault. Brad had two fractured ribs from your cane. "

"He's a military veteran, I'm a crippled doctor - how's that going to look in court?"

"Court may be the least of your problems. You assaulted a patient's family member. Cuddy's under pressure from the Board to show you the door. You may not have realised it but she was leading around a group of donors when you were going all vigilante. Two of them have already withdrawn their pledges, and the rest are wavering. After that mess with Tritter the Board's been itching for an excuse to get rid of you, and you just handed them a huge one."

House shrugged. "I've got tenure."

Wilson shook his head. "Unprofessional conduct will lose you that, and you can't get much more unprofessional than assaulting the father of a patient."

"A _murderer_. Let's not lose sight of that. Pretty sure that's against the law too."

"He's a decorated war hero, House."

_Yeah, well so was my Dad, _House thought_, and look what an asshole he was. _His father had never managed to kill him, but that was about all he hadn't done. Timothy might be better off dead than in a living hell like that.

He began to walk down the sidewalk. Annoyingly Wilson followed him.

"House! House, wait up. Where are you going? The car's this way, I need to take you back to the hospital so you can explain what happened. Cuddy's waiting for you."

Fuck that. He kept walking. Wilson grabbed at his arm, pulling him off balance. House stumbled and then swung around, his grip tightening on his cane as he lifted it.

Wilson let go of his arm and held his hands up. "Whoa, House. What the hell has gotten into you? Were you going to _hit _me?"

House lowered his cane. "No, I was going to stick this where the sun doesn't shine." He turned away and began walking in the opposite direction. Wilson kept yelling at him but House hailed a passing taxi and made good his escape. His last sight was of Wilson, standing hands on hips in the middle of the road looking after him.


End file.
